"I told him that I could never be fond of him in any different way--that I could never _think_ of it. And although I endeavoured to avoid hurting his feelings, he--took it very badly. He said, in such a queer, choking voice, that he was going away--" "Away!--from England?" "Yes; and--he made a strange request." "What was it?" "In the circumstances--you see--I felt sorry for him--I did not like to refuse him; it was only a trifling thing. He asked for a lock of my hair!" "A lock of your hair! And you--" "I told you that I did not like to refuse--and I let him snip off a tiny piece, with a pair of pocket scissors which he had. Are you angry?" "Of course not! You--were almost brought up together. You--?" "Then--" she paused--"he seemed to change. Suddenly, I found myself afraid--dreadfully afraid--" "Of Ferrara?" "Not of Antony, exactly. But what is the good of my trying to explain! A most awful dread seized me. His face was no longer the face that I have always known; something--" Her voice trembled, and she seemed disposed to leave the sentence unfinished; then: "Something evil--sinister, had come into it." "And since then," said Cairn, "you have not seen him?" "He has not been here since then--no." Cairn, his hands resting upon the girl's shoulders, leant back in the seat, and looked into her troubled eyes with a kind of sad scrutiny. "You have not been fretting about him?" Myra shook her head. "Yet you look as though something were troubling you. This house"--he indicated the low-lying garden with a certain irritation--"is not healthily situated. This place lies in a valley; look at the rank grass--and there are mosquitoes everywhere. You do not look well, Myra." The girl smiled--a little wistful smile. "But I was so tired of Scotland," she said. "You do not know how I looked forward to London again. I must admit, though, that I was in better health there; I was quite ashamed of my dairy-maid appearance." "You have nothing to amuse you here," said Cairn tenderly; "no company, for Mr. Saunderson only lives for his orchids." "They are very fascinating," said Myra dreamily, "I, too, have felt their glamour. I am the only member of the household whom he allows amongst his orchids--" "Perhaps you spend too much time there," interrupted Cairn; "that superheated, artificial atmosphere--" Myra shook her head playfully, patting his arm. "There is nothing in the world the matter with me," she said, almost in her old bright manner--"now that you are back--" "I do not approve of orchids," jerked Cairn doggedly. "They are parodies of what a flower should be. Place an Odontoglossum beside a rose, and what a distorted unholy thing it looks!" "Unholy?" laughed Myra. "Unholy,--yes!--they are products of feverish swamps and deathly jungles. I hate orchids. The atmosphere of an orchid-house cannot possibly be clean and healthy. One might as well spend one's time in a bacteriological laboratory!"