She ran out of the room to put on her things, upsetting as she did so, the work-box with which she had been masquerading, and quite unconscious of it. Winnington, smiling to himself, stooped to pick up the reels and skeins of silk. One, a skein of pink silk with which she had been working, he held in his hand a moment, and, suddenly, put in his pocket. After which he drifted absently to the hearthrug, and stood waiting for her, hat in hand. He was thinking of that moment in the wintry dawn when he had read her letter. The shock of emotion returned upon him. But what was he to do? What was really in her mind?--or, for the matter of that, in his own? She re-appeared, radiant in a moleskin cap and furs, and then they both awkwardly remembered--he, that he had made no inquiry about Weston, and she, that she had said nothing of Gertrude Marvell's hurried departure. "Your poor maid? Tell me about her. Oh, but she'll do well. We'll take care of her. France is an awfully good doctor." Her eyes thanked him. She gave him a brief account of Weston's state; then looked away. "Do you know--that I'm quite alone? Gertrude went up to town this morning?" Winnington gave a low whistle of astonishment. "She had to--" said Delia, hurriedly. "It was the office--they couldn't do without her." "I thought she had undertaken to be your chaperon?" The girl coloured. "Well yes--but of course--the other claim came first." "You don't expect me to admit that," said Winnington, with energy. "Miss Marvell has left you alone?--_alone_?--at a moment's notice--with your maid desperately ill--and without a word to me, or anybody?" His eyes sparkled. "Don't let's quarrel!" cried Delia, as she stood opposite to him, putting on her gloves. "_Don't_! Not to-day--not this afternoon! And we're sure to quarrel if we talk about Gertrude." His indignation broke up in laughter. "Very well. We won't mention her. Well, but look here--" he pondered--"You _must_ have somebody. I would propose that Alice should come and keep you company, but I left her in bed with what looks like the flu. Ah!--I have it. But--am I really to advise? You are twenty-one, remember,--nearly twenty-two!" The tender sarcasm in his voice brought a flood of colour to her cheeks. "Go on!" she said, and stood quivering. "Would you consider asking Lady Tonbridge to come and stay with you? Nora is away on a visit." Delia moved quietly to the writing-table, pulled off her gloves, sat down to write a note. He watched her, standing behind her; his strained yet happy look resting on the beautiful dark head. She rose, and held out the note, addressed to Lady Tonbridge. He took the note, and the hand together. The temptation was irresistible. He raised the hand and kissed it. Both were naturally reminded of the only previous occasion on which he had done such a thing; and as he dropped his hold, Delia saw the ugly scar which would always mark his left wrist.