"I think you a most inconsiderate and ungrateful stepson," retorted the Countess. "You know how I am being preyed upon, and how everyone takes advantage of me because I have no man at my back. If this is not your home, where is it?" "I have no home," said Guy gravely; "I am a nomad from circumstances and choice." He bade her farewell, and she, as usual, dissolved into tears. Adrienne went out to the terrace to see him off. The car was waiting, and then, just as he was getting into it, he turned and came back to her. There was a strange look upon his face, half daring, half wistful. "Little cousin," he said, "if I find I want to settle down, could we work a home together, do you think?" "I don't know what you mean," said Adrienne breathlessly. "Don't you? Think about it whilst I am away. Only a woman makes a home, and the only woman who could make me a home would be you." Then the colour rushed into Adrienne's cheeks, and sudden anger seemed to seize her. "I am sorry I cannot oblige you," she said stiffly; "the contingency of your wanting a home may never arise. It sounds from your point of view very doubtful." "Have you no personal liking for me?" He put the question very gravely. "I think you're a very baffling, mysterious person," Adrienne said, and there was some resentment in her tone. "You won't take people into your confidence, and you come and go with your own life locked away from us all. I don't wonder my aunt gets impatient with you. She is on the edge of a precipice; her home is being wrested away from her in a most dishonest fashion, and yet you refuse to let us know whether you mean to save it for her or not. I hate secrecy and intrigue of any kind; you make a mystery of everything even of these Prestons. I have been accustomed to the very reverse of this, and cannot understand you. No, I would never link my life with one who is so I reserved, and so complacent in his reticence." He stood for a moment looking at her, but Adrienne would not meet his eyes. "I did not realize you disapproved of me so much," he said slowly; "I am afraid you still bear me a grudge over that poor miserable Preston. Well, you have given me my answer. Perhaps I have been foolish in being so precipitous. Au revoir. You will stay here till I return?" "I can make no promises," Adrienne replied; but her tone softened. "I won't desert Aunt Cecily if I can help it, but I cannot stay on with her interminably, and that she will not understand." He left her, and she watched the car disappear down the drive and along the straight white road that led to the station. Why had she felt so ruffled and indignant? she asked herself.