"You certainly know how to dry tears, Guy. I wonder if dear Uncle Derrick and Mrs. Winter are as happy as we are? I could not tell you just now, but deep down in my heart I was crying for you. I did want you so badly. Ever since I sent you to America with such hasty words as I used, I have been consumed with shame and remorse. And I felt you had given up caring about me, that you were expecting me to leave the Château as soon as I could. When Uncle Derrick's letter came, and I felt that he didn't want me, I wondered where on earth I could go, to get away from you both!" Then she stood up. Even in this golden moment of happiness, her duty in life came before her. "I must go back to Aunt Cecily. Nurse will be wanting her tea." "Ah!" said Guy, getting up and stretching himself. "Now I see freedom before me! I dared not make a move before, because of frightening you away. Now the first thing that I shall do will be to get another good nurse, and relieve you of this constant attendance in a sick-room." "But," said Adrienne in her usual cheery tone, "I am not going to forsake Aunt Cecily. I am too fond of her for that." "We'll discuss the subject later." They walked back to the Château together, Adrienne feeling as if she were in a dream. Was it the level-headed, rather aloof Guy now speaking to her with such passionate earnestness? "I fell in love with you at first sight," he was telling her; "I used to shut my eyes often and see you in that English drawing-room of yours at the piano singing that song about giving. The windows were open, and I can smell the sweet jasmine now that was climbing up outside. I was desperately afraid you would not come over, and when you did, I was afraid you would not stay. I have so many pictures of you, Adrienne. I took them all away to America with me, and looked at them again and again. Do you remember when I first came upon you in the wood? The sun was on your hair, and if I hadn't had plenty of self-control, I could have taken you up and kissed you there and then." "You had consummate self-control," said Adrienne, looking up at him with her sunny smile. "You seemed above and beyond me altogether; and when you did ask me to make a home for you, I felt it was the home you were thinking about, and not me." "I was crude in expression. I've never had a home all my life—home is where love blossoms and ripens and stays. I never had anyone to care for me. Even my mother was bored with me. She hated children and she died when I was five. I wasn't French enough for my father. We were good friends—nothing more. And when my stepmother came into my father's life, I was in America, a grown man." "Did you never know Mathilde? I thought her rather nice, though she lived, I think, entirely for amusement." "We met occasionally. The Château was not a happy home. It is only since I have watched your love for it that I began to think I might come to care for it too." "You do love it, don't you?"