t that. I was worried to
blazes...."

"That--that's the worst of dreams," said Valerie slowly. "You're
impotent."

With a shock she realized that she had written ANDRE in capitals in the
middle of her letter, and, below it again, BACCHANAL. Casually she
scratched out the words till her pen ploughed up the sodden paper.

"It's a wretched feeling," said Anthony. "I dreamt she--cared for me.
And I--I never got there. She had to tell me right out.... Oh,
Valerie, it was awful."

Miss French felt as though her heart had stopped beating. She could
have screamed to Anthony to go on. Instead--

"Poor old chap," she said gently.

She had her reward.

"When she saw there was nothing doing, she went.... And then
Winchester appeared with Patch, as I was putting her into her car. I
remember he called her 'Andre'--that's how I knew her name.... And
then he cursed me, because she was his _fiancee_, and she fairly tore
him up. Then she chucked down his ring and drove off. There must have
been a car leaving Bell Hammer just then. I can hear her changing the
gears now." He passed a hand over his eyes. "I can't remember any
more, except that Winchester was shouting...."

For a long moment the two sat very still. Then Valerie scrambled to
her feet and put her head on one side. Her eyes were just dancing.

"You and your red-haired sirens," she said reproachfully. "And now
come along, and I'll pick you a buttonhole."

The cloud poor Peter Every had found so menacing had discharged rain of
pure gold. Love had emerged from the shower, refreshed, glistening.
The two could not know that, while they passed down the steps into the
sunlit flower-garden, a girl with auburn hair was pushing a frantic
three-year-old through the Scotch mist of Donegal, and wondering at
every bank whether she would have the good fortune to break her neck.

Still, though their rain be golden, clouds beget shadows. If Lyveden
responded to Valerie's invitation, he did not rise to her mood. The
throwback to Gramarye had set him thinking....

"Valerie," he said slowly, knitting his brows.

The girl had been upon the point of stopping to pick a rose. His
serious tone, however, made her look up. The bloom was spared.

"Yes."

"When I went down--in November--there was something wrong. I mean, we
were at variance."

With difficulty the girl repressed a shiver.

For a while she had hourly dreaded an allusion to the grim episode.
The