“If I were Gabrielle, I should answer, _au diable_ with anyone who wants to coerce me, especially when what I wish to do is innocent enough. As it is, those dreadful bogies of my life, _convenances_ and _bienséances_, must be infringed, the flagrancy of a nocturnal escapade braved, for I _will_ go round the garden, and you, Lord Delaval, you will surely be kind enough to stay here quietly under these lovely trees, until I come. Don’t let any one see you, for Heaven’s sake, that is, not mamma, or she will be suspecting I am flown, goodness knows where! I won’t tax your patience for more than ten minutes I promise.” So after all she has not proposed a longer promenade for the sake of _his_ society, he thinks angrily. It is simply girlish nonsense that she wishes to indulge in, or--perhaps she wants to have a quiet cry over Carl Conway’s engagement to Crystal Meredyth. This suspicion ices his tone, and alters his manner strangely. “I cannot possibly let you go by yourself, but if you _will_ go, I will go with you!” “No! No! Do let me go by myself. What I want so much is to be alone with night, with the silence--with myself,” she answers hastily, then she adds quietly: “You see I have _such_ a headache, Lord Delaval.” “I cannot let you go alone,” he replies, rather haughtily, dreadfully irritated at her evident reluctance to his company, when he fain would give ten years of his life to be able to catch the slight figure in his arms, and to rain down as many caresses as are his bent on her sweet face, and withal he yearns for the power of making her fold her lovely butterfly wings, to settle down at his feet, possibly to be spurned when sick of her. “If I let you venture out of my sight at such an hour, what account should I be able to render to Lady Beranger? So you see I must accompany you.” “Then I will go into the house at once,” she flashes. “The most sensible thing for you to do,” he says, coldly, and his tone vexes her immensely, for she does not of course know that he is only too willing to stay here, in these quiet, deserted grounds, with myriads of stars overhead, and the great elms casting down cool shadows on them, while he can gaze his fill on what seems to him to-night the rarest loveliness he has looked on in his thirty years. But Zai, though she fumes inwardly, thinks discretion is the better part of valour and says nothing. In truth, all she longs for is a few moments’ quiet, during which she can nerve herself to pass Carl Conway calmly, now that she has found out his duplicity. And she would have staked her existence on his honour and fidelity! Turning suddenly, she wanders down the first path and on and on, communing with her own heart, fighting with the love which is greater and stronger than herself, utterly forgetful that a tall, stately form stalks by her side in dignified silence.