Then a new suspicion came to her, which made her even more uncomfortable. Was it possible that her daughter's passionate desire for secrecy had anything to do with Lord Vivianne? Was her daughter _afraid_ of letting him know that she was going to be married? The very torment of the suspicion, faint as it was, filled her with dread. Then she saw the happy little group of guests on the lawn, she caught one glimpse of the white water-lilies and green dress as Lady Studleigh disappeared with her cavalier. "What has come over me?" said the countess. "I have a presentiment, heavy as death! What can be wrong? I shall begin to think I am growing old and fanciful. What danger can be near my darling?" She set herself resolutely to play at whist, but every now and then her partner saw her turn pale and shudder, as though she were cold. Doris and Lord Vivianne were out in the moonlight together, and alone at last. At first they maintained complete and perfect silence. Lord Vivianne placed the white jeweled hand on his arm. She did not make the least objection; it was all useless, she was in his power, and she knew it; she would not even ask the question that trembled on her lips, and filled her with despairing wonder--what had brought him there? She walked by his side, silent, proud, and uncomplaining. "My darling," he said, at last, "does not this evening remind you of Florence, and the moonlight on the river?" "If I am to talk to you, Lord Vivianne, and it seems I am compelled to do so, I must ask you to refrain from using such expressions as 'darling.' I will not answer you if you do: they are utterly hateful to me." "Yet I remember the time when they pleased you passing well. Do you remember, Dora, when I gave you a diamond ring? You have diamonds now on your neck and arms, in your ears, and your hair. They shine like fire-rivers over your beautiful figure; you are so accustomed to them that they have ceased to have any particular value for you. But do you remember your delight in the first?" "Women remember their first diamonds, as they do their first long dress or their first lover," she replied. "I suppose so. Oh, Dora, be a little kind to me! We are here in this sweet moonlight together, yet you do not give me one word, one smile. You were not always so hard or so cruel. In Florence, you used to walk with both these beautiful white hands clasped over my arm. Do you remember it?" Then she raised to his a face that, in its pride and anger, he never forgot. "I will not permit you to mention those days to me," she cried. "They are hateful; the very memory of them brands me as with a red-hot iron. I will not bear it. I would sooner--listen to me--I know the words are unwomanly--I would sooner pass through the infernal fires than go to Florence with you again." He laughed.