He turned towards her, and she looked up. If ever love, all-giving, self-forgetting, was written on a girl's face, it was written on Beryl's then. Her wild-rose colour came and went; her eyes were full of tears. She had honestly made her attempt, but she could not carry it through, and he saw it. Some vague hope--of which he was ashamed--died away. Profoundly touched, he put out his arms, and making nothing of her slight resistance, gathered her close to him. 'Did you ever read _Sintram_, Beryl?' 'Yes, years ago.' 'Do you remember his black fits--how they came upon him unexpectedly--and only Verena could help him? It's like that with me sometimes. Things I've seen--horrible sufferings and death--come back on me. I can't get over it--at least not yet. But I'll never let it come really between us. And perhaps--some day'--he hesitated and his voice dropped--'you shall help me--like Verena!' She clung to him, not knowing what he meant, but fascinated by his deep voice, and the warm shelter of his arms. He bent down to kiss her, in the most passionate embrace he had ever given her. Then he released her, and they both looked at each other with a new shyness. 'So that's all right!' he said, smiling. 'You see you can't drop me as easily as you think. I stick! Well, now, you take me as a pauper--not exactly a pauper--but still--I've got to settle things with your father, though!' Beryl proposed that they should go and look for the others. They went hand in hand. * * * * * Sir Henry meanwhile was engaged in the congenial occupation of inspecting and showing his kitchen gardens. His son Arthur and Pamela Mannering were following him round the greenhouses, finding more amusement in the perplexities of Sir Henry's conscience than interest in the show itself. 'You see they've brought in the chrysanthemums. Just in time! There was a frost last night,' said Sir Henry, throwing open a door, and disclosing a greenhouse packed with chrysanthemums in bud. 'My hat--what a show!' said his son. 'Not at all, Arthur, not at all,' said his father, annoyed. 'Not a third of what we had last year.' Arthur raised his eyebrows, and behind his father's back he and Pamela exchanged smiles. The next house showed a couple of elderly men at work pruning roses intended to flower in February and March. 'This is almost my favourite house,' exclaimed Sir Henry. 'Such a wonderful result for so little labour!' He strolled on complacently. 'How long does this take you, Grimes?' Arthur inquired discreetly of one of the gardeners. 'Oh, a good while, Mr. Arthur--what with the pruning, and the syringing, and the manuring,' said the man addressed, stopping to wipe his brow, for the day was mild.