"He was certainly a very handsome man," she said; "he always made me think of one line in the quaint, old song of 'Allan Water:' "'And a winning tongue had he.' "It was impossible to resist him when with him, his daring was so frank, his compliments so graceful and well turned, yet one felt, instinctively, that the truth was not in him. Faithless and debonair. I should not like any one for whom I felt any great esteem to marry Ulric Studleigh, were he thrice an earl." "Well, I cannot help feeling rather pleased," said the duke. "Perhaps it was a little for his handsome face, but certainly I liked him." "When is he coming home?" asked the duchess. "He had sailed for England long before this news could reach him, but it will greet him as soon as he lands. He is expected next week." There was the sound of the quiet closing of a door. When the duke and duchess looked round Lady Estelle had gone. Then they glanced wistfully at each other. "She liked him," said the duke. "I am afraid so," said the duchess. "I half believe that it is for his sake she has remained single. Poor Estelle! Who would have thought it? We shall see how events turn out when he returns to England. They are sure to meet; then we shall see." While Lady Estelle walked slowly through the hall, she took her garden hat and wrapped a lace shawl round her shoulders. Quietly, with her usual languid, graceful step, she passed out through the hall into the flower-garden beyond. No sound escaped her lips, and her fair, proud face was unruffled; but when she was there quite alone, the self-control and self-restraint fell from her. She raised her face with a despairing cry to the shining heavens. "Oh, my God!" she moaned; "after so many years of dread--after so many years of unutterable fear and misery--has it come at last!" Then she, who had never been seen to shed a tear, laid her face on the green grass and wept aloud--wept as only calm, proud people can weep when the depths of the heart are touched. She lay there a long time, while the sun shone on her, then she roused herself. Tears relieved her for the time; but in this sudden and cruel emergency they did her no enduring good. "What am I to do?" she cried to herself. "How can I best atone for this folly and sin of my youth? What will they say to me? Oh, Heaven! if I could but die!" So through the summer hours she wept and moaned. What should she do? The future looked dark as the past. For so long she had been putting off this evil day--fighting hard with her conscience and every impulse of honesty and goodness--hoping against hope that the evil day might, perhaps, never come at all. Yet here it was, and she was helpless. "If she were here," she thought to herself, "it would not be so bad. I cannot see my way out of this labyrinth." And though she spent hour after hour thinking and planning, she could decide upon nothing.