Accordingly they all went to look at the chrysanthemums, amongst which they talked mere commonplaces for a little while. Bernard was miserably disappointed. Doris was uncomfortable and frightened--the shadow of her father’s sin seemed to rest over her, filling her with shame. She did not know whether Bernard was prosecuting her father or not, and feared that he might say something which would betray the wretched secret to Alice. Even if he regretted the way he shrank from her when hearing of her father’s misappropriation of his money, or if he wished, as seemed evident, to renew their former relations, she could not and would not ruin his life, as his mother had said she would ruin it by marrying him. Poor he was, and shabby. Not a detail of this escaped her--his worn clothes and baggy trousers touched her deeply; but at least he bore an unblemished and honourable name. Was she to smirch it? Was she to bring to him, as his mother had said, a dowry of shame? No, no. His mother’s words were still ringing in her ears. Stung beyond endurance by the remembrance, Doris raised her head and confronted Bernard proudly. "Mr. Cameron," she said, "you must see--I mean, do you think that it is quite right to--accompany us--when----" "When I am not wanted," he suggested, bitterly. "I did not say that exactly. But----" "You meant it." Bernard’s eyes flashed. He, too, was stung now. "I will say ’Good-bye,’" he said, raising his hat. The girls bowed, and, turning away, walked quietly out of the great house, leaving Bernard to return to his seat a crushed and miserable man. He thought that it was all over between him and Doris. His mother had spoken the truth in saying the girl had declared she would never marry him. He need not have grieved his mother by refusing to prosecute her father: he need not have lost his home for that. Doris no longer loved him; she no longer loved him at all. He had lost his money, and he had lost Doris. That was the worst blow that had ever befallen him; nothing mattered now, nothing at all: he was in despair. It was far worse to have met Doris and found her altogether estranged from him than not to have met her at all. "She wasn’t like Doris," he said to himself, miserably. "She wasn’t like my Doris at all. It might have been another girl; it might have been another girl altogether." The hot tears came into his eyes, and he buried his face in his hands that others might not see them. "Oh, don’t, don’t be so unhappy!" said a voice in his ear, suddenly. "Didn’t you notice that her manner was forced--unnatural?" "Oh!" Bernard rose, and stood looking wonderingly into Alice Sinclair’s face. It was full of kindness, and seemed to him, then, one of the sweetest faces he had ever seen.