It was all done so wisely and well; not in the least as a note of warning. And all he said sank deep into Theodora's heart. She had never even dreamed of the plan which was now matured in Hector's brain--of going away with him. He, as really a lover, was not for her, that was a foregone conclusion. It was the fear of she knew not what which troubled her. She was too unsophisticated and innocent to really know--only that to be with him now was a continual danger; soon she knew she would not be able to control herself, she must be clasped in his arms. And then--and then--there was the picture in front of her of Josiah and the "second honeymoon." Thus while she sat there gazing at the man she passionately loved playing polo, she was silently suffering all the anguish of which a woman's heart is capable. The only possible way was to part from Hector forever--to say the last good-bye before she should go, like a sheep, to the slaughter. When she was once more the wife of Josiah she could never look upon his face again. And if Hector had known the prospect that awaited her at Bessington Hall, it would have driven him--already mad--to frenzy. The day wore on, and still Theodora's fears kept her from allowing a tete-a-tete when he dismounted and joined them for tea. But fate had determined otherwise. And as the soft evening came several of the party walked down by the river--which ran on the western side below the rose-gardens and the wood of firs--to see Barbara's many breeds of ducks and water-fowl. Then Hector's determination to be alone with her conquered for the time. Theodora found herself strolling with him in a path of meeting willows, with a summer-house at the end, by the water's bank. They were quite separated from the others by now. They, with affairs of their own to pursue, had spread in different directions. And it was evening, and warm, and June. There was a strange, weird silence between them, and both their hearts were beating to suffocation--hers with the thought of the anguish of parting forever, his with the exaltation of the picture of parting no more. They came to the little summer-house, and there they sat down and surveyed the scene. The evening lights were all opalescent on the water, there was peace in the air and brilliant fresh green on the trees, and soft and liquid rose the nightingale's note. So at last Hector broke the silence. "Darling," he said, "I love you--I love you so utterly this cannot go on. I must have you for my own--" and then, as she gasped, he continued in a torrent of passionate words. He told her of his infinite love for her; of the happiness he would fill her life with; of his plan that they should go away together when she should leave Beechleigh; of the joy of their days; of the tender care he would take of her; and every and each sentence ended with a passionate avowal of his love and devotion.