stood alone in
the long drawing-room.

"Yes; think if you had had to present to them the old white-haired
wife----"

"I loved the old wife," he said obstinately; but his voice was not quite
steady.

"I wish," she said, playing with the Christmas roses she wore, "I wish
you would try to forgive me. It was horribly wrong; but I began it as a
joke. You see, I had only just come over from the convent where I was
brought up. I thought it would be such fun: I was always good at
theatricals. I will never do anything silly again. And to-morrow I'll go
away, and you need never see me again. And you _have_ got the money and
the old place, haven't you? And I got them for you--and--do forgive me.
It began as a silly schoolgirl's joke indeed."

"But--a convent! You have read and thought----"

"It was my father. He made me read and think; and when he died all the
money went, and my mother is poor. Oh, Michael, don't be so flinty! Say
you forgive me before I go! It all began in a joke!"

"Began. Yes. But why did you go on?"

"Because I--I didn't like Sylvia--and I liked you--rather--but I won't
be a nuisance. I'll go back to mother. Say you forgive me. I'll go by
the first train in the morning."

"The first train," said Michael absently, "is the 9.17; but to-morrow is
Christmas Day--I daresay they'll run the same as on Sunday."

She took her white cloak from the settle by the fire.

"Good night," she said sadly; "you are very hard. Won't you even shake
hands?"

"We had no roses at our wedding," he said, still absently; "but there
are roses at Christmas." He raised his hand to the white flowers she
wore, and touched them softly. "White roses, too, for a wedding," he
said.

"Good night!" she said again.

"And you will go to your mother to-morrow by the 9.17 train, or the
10.5, if the trains run the same as on Sunday. And I am to forgive you,
and shake hands before we part. Well, well!"

He took the hand she held out, caught the other, and stood holding them,
his grey eyes seeking hers. Her head thrown back, her hands stretched
out, she looked at him from arm's length.

"Dear!" he said.

A mute glance questioned him. Then lashes longer than Sylvia's veiled
the dark eyes.

He spoke again. "Dear!"

"You know you hate me," she said.

He raised her hands to his lips.

"Have you forgotten Sylvia?"

"Absolutely, thank God! And you--I--after all, we are married, though
there were no roses at our June wedding."