'What is the matter, Armorel?' asked Zoe. 'What makes you look so fierce? Heaven help your husband when you look like that!' 'Did I look fierce? It must have been something that I remembered. Yes--that was it.' 'May I read the verses again?' Zoe read them, suspiciously. There was something in them which had startled Armorel. What was it? She could see nothing to account for this emotion. Certainly she was not fond of poetry, and failed to appreciate the fine turns and subtle tones, the felicitous phrase and the unexpected thought with which the poet delights his readers. In this little poem she could find nothing but a few jingling rhymes. Why should Armorel behave so strangely? 'What is it, my dear?' she asked again. 'Something I remembered--nothing of any importance.' 'Armorel, has Alec said anything to you? Has he--has he wanted to make love to you? Has he offended you by speaking?' 'No. There has been no question of love-making between us, and there never will be.' 'One cannot say.' Zoe looked at the matter from experience. 'One can never say. Men are strange creatures; and Alec certainly thinks a great deal of you.' 'I cannot imagine his making love--any more than I can imagine his painting a picture or writing a poem. Perhaps he would make love as he paints.' 'Well, he paints very well.' 'Very well indeed, I dare say.' She got up. 'I am going to leave you to-night, Zoe. I want to go to my own room. I have things to write. You don't mind?' 'My dear child, mind! Of course, one would rather have your company. But since you must leave me'--she sank back in her chair with a sigh. 'Give me that book, dear--if you please--the French novel. When one has been married one can read French novels without trying to conceal the fact. They are mostly wicked, and sometimes witty. Not always. Good-night, dear. I shall not expect you back this evening.' Armorel, in her own room, opened the manuscript book of poems which Archie had given her, and found--the very last of all--the lines which she had remembered. She laid the precious autograph beside Effie's poem. Word for word--comma for comma--they were exactly the same. There was not the slightest difference. And again Armorel thought of the two pictures. Then she thought of the little dainty volume in white parchment containing the Second Series of 'Voice and Echo, by Alec Feilding.' She had tossed it aside, impatient with the man, when Zoe gave it to her. Now she looked for it, and found it after a little search. She opened it side by side with Effie's manuscript book. Presently she found the page in Effie's book which corresponded with the first page of the printed volume. There were about thirty or forty poems in the little book: in the manuscript book there were double that number; but the same poems followed each other one after the other in the same order, and without the difference of a single word, both in book and manuscript.