ich was always rough with her, she had
not courage to glance at it. Then suddenly a woman's belief in the power
of her charm came to her aid; she felt almost happy--surely he must love
her better than his conscience! But that confidence was very tremulous,
ready to yield to the first rebuff. Even the friendly fresh--cheeked
maid seemed that morning to be regarding her with compassion; and all
the innate sense, not of 'good form,' but of form, which made her shrink
from anything that should disturb or hurt another, or make anyone think
she was to be pitied, rose up at once within her; she became more than
ever careful to show nothing even to herself. So she passed the morning,
mechanically doing the little usual things. An overpowering longing was
with her all the time, to get him away with her from England, and see
whether the thousand beauties she could show him would not fire him with
love of the things she loved. As a girl she had spent nearly three years
abroad. And Eustace had never been to Italy, nor to her beloved mountain
valleys! Then, the remembrance of his rooms at the Temple broke in
on that vision, and shattered it. No Titian's feast of gentian, tawny
brown, and alpen-rose could intoxicate the lover of those books, those
papers, that great map. And the scent of leather came to her now as
poignantly as if she were once more flitting about noiselessly on
her business of nursing. Then there rushed through her again the warm
wonderful sense that had been with her all those precious days--of
love that knew secretly of its approaching triumph and fulfilment; the
delicious sense of giving every minute of her time, every thought,
and movement; and all the sweet unconscious waiting for the divine,
irrevocable moment when at last she would give herself and be his. The
remembrance too of how tired, how sacredly tired she had been, and of
how she had smiled all the time with her inner joy of being tired for
him.

The sound of the bell startled her. His telegram had said, the
afternoon! She determined to show nothing of the trouble darkening the
whole world for her, and drew a deep breath, waiting for his kiss.

It was not Miltoun, but Lady Casterley.

The shock sent the blood buzzing into her temples. Then she noticed that
the little figure before her was also trembling; drawing up a chair, she
said: "Won't you sit down?"

The tone of that old voice, thanking her, brought back sharply the
memory of her garden, at M