Edgar was sitting by her side, cutting up magazines and newspapers, watchful of her every look, thinking her every word delightful, ready to minister to her comfort or pleasure, but without much ability to entertain her with any conversational brightness—unless they two could have been alone, and could have talked of their future life at Hawksyard; the stables, the gardens, the horses they were to ride together next winter, when Daphne was to take the field, a heaven-born Diana. He was never tired of talking of that happy future, so near, so near, and to which he looked forward with such fervent hope. They were nearing Fontainebleau; already the forest showed dark on the horizon. Daphne, so vivacious hitherto, became curiously silent. She sat looking towards that distant line of wood, that smiling valley with its winding river. All her soul was in her eyes as she looked. Two years ago—almost day for day, two years—and her heart had awakened suddenly from its long sleep of childish innocence to feel and to suffer. Gerald stole a look—guiltily as it were—at the too expressive face. Yes, she remembered. Her soul was full of sad and tender memories. He could read all her secrets in those lovely eyes, the lips slightly parted, the lace about her neck stirred faintly by the throbbing of her heart. She had no more forgotten Fontainebleau and their meetings there than he had. To each it dated a crisis in life: for each it had given a new colour to every thought and feeling. Lina, her hands moving slowly in some easy knitting, looked up at her sister. ‘Are we not near Fontainebleau, where you spent your holidays once?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ Daphne answered shortly. ‘You speak as if you had not been happy there.’ ‘I liked the place very much; but it was a dull life. Poor Miss Toby and her sick headaches, and Dibb for my only companion.’ ‘And Dibb was ineffably stupid,’ said Gerald, suddenly forgetting himself, and moved to laughter at the thought of honest Martha’s stolidity; ‘at least, I have often heard you say as much,’ he added hastily. ‘She was a good harmless thing, and I won’t have her ridiculed,’ said Daphne, brightening, all serious thoughts taking flight at the absurdity of Gerald’s lapse. ‘I wonder if she has finished that crochet counterpane.’ ‘Finished it! Of course not,’ cried Gerald. ‘She is the sort of girl who would die, and come to life again in a better world still working at the same counterpane—as I imagine from your description of her,’ he concluded meekly.