This rather surprised me, for she had hitherto been full of admiration of the fine, well-preserved relic of the Elizabethan age. "Dearest, if you do not care for Carrington we will not go there. We can either live at Wilton Street, or travel." "I'm tired of travelling, dear," she declared. "Ah, so tired! So, if you are content, let us live in Wilton Street. Carrington is so huge. When we were there I always felt lost in those big old rooms and long, echoing corridors." "But your own rooms that I've had redecorated and furnished are smaller," I said. "I admit that the old part of the house is very dark and weird--full of ghosts of other times. There are a dozen or more legends concerning it, as you know." "Yes, I read them in the guide-book to Devon. Some are distinctly quaint, are they not?" "Some are tragic also--especially the story of little Lady Holbrook, who was so brutally killed by the Roundheads because she refused to reveal the whereabouts of her husband," I said. "Poor little lady!" sighed Sylvia. "But that is not mere legend: it is historical fact." "Well," I said, "if you do not care for Carrington--if it is too dull for you--we'll live in London. Personally, I, too, should soon grow tired of a country life; and yet how could I grow tired of life with you, my own darling, at my side?" "And how could I either, Owen?" she asked, kissing me fondly. "With you, no place can ever be dull. It is not the dulness I dread, but other things." "What things?" "Catastrophe--of what kind, I know not. But I have been seized with a kind of instinctive dread." For a few moments I was silent, my arm still about her neat waist. This sudden depression of hers was not reassuring. "Try and rid yourself of the idea, dearest," I urged presently. "You have nothing to fear. We may both have enemies, but they will not now dare to attack us. Remember, I am now your husband." "And I your wife, Owen," she said, with a sweet love-look. Then, with a heavy sigh, she gazed thoughtfully away with her eyes fixed upon the darkening sea, and added: "I only fear, dearest--for your sake." I was silent again. "Sylvia," I said slowly at last, "have you learnt anything--anything fresh which has awakened these strange apprehensions of yours?" "No," she faltered, "nothing exactly fresh. It is only a strange and unaccountable dread which has seized me--a dread of impending disaster." "Forget it," I urged, endeavouring to laugh. "All your fears are now without foundation, dearest. Now we are wedded, we will fearlessly face the world together." "I have no fear when I am at your side, Owen," she replied, looking at me pale and troubled. "But when we are parted I--I always fear. The day before yesterday I was full of apprehension all the time you had gone to York. I felt that something was to happen to you." "Really, dear," I said, smiling, "you make me feel quite creepy. Don't allow your mind to run on the subject. Try and think of something else."