"Listen, dear," said Alice, "in your innermost heart you know that I am right. I am only calling a spade a spade, and it isn’t the least use to make a pretence of calling it anything else. You do not love Norman. Now, dear, hear me out, _you do not love him at all_. I was watching you this morning when you received that letter from him, and you looked infinitely bored. When he is over here you escape from his presence whenever you can, especially if I am not with you. You say that he is not being deceived, but does he realise what a wretched man he will be if he marries you when you are feeling like that? He is full of love and tenderness towards you, and you have not even the old liking for him and interest in his talk and doings which you had at first. You can, in fact, barely tolerate him now. Think, then, what it will be to have to live with him for years and years, until you are old and die----" "Hush, dear! Perhaps I shall die soon." There was a peculiar sound in the poor girl’s voice, and Alice, looking at her with searching eyes, could see that her heart was breaking, and that she would indeed die soon if she were not released from what was slowly killing her. "The marriage must not take place," said Alice, firmly. "If not for your own sake, you must stop it for Norman’s. If _your_ heart is breaking now, _his_ will break after marriage, when he finds that he has only bought an empty shell without its kernel, a lovely woman without a heart which can return his love, a wife without the wifely qualities he craves. Poor old Norman! He deserves a better fate," and there was indignation in her tones. "Yes," said Doris, "it is true. He deserves a better fate." They were silent for a few minutes after she had said that. The girls sat watching the sunlit sea dotted here and there with boats of various descriptions. They listened to the gentle lapping of the waves, the shouts and laughter of the children paddling on the beach, and the scraps of conversation from the passers-by. But mentally they were seeing very different scenes, and they were hearing, too, other more interesting words. Doris was thinking of Bernard, of the gradual growth of their love for each other, and his proposal upon the hill at Askern in Yorkshire, and, later on, his more mature declaration of love, in Mrs. Austin’s house in North London. Alice, on the other hand, was thinking of her brother Norman, and of the pained expression of his face when Doris too manifestly avoided a _tête-à-tête_ with him. If it were so now, what would it be when they were married? What prospect of happiness could there be for either of them? "Look! See who is coming towards us!" exclaimed Doris, suddenly. Her face had lighted up with a smile of singular beauty, and she was leaning forward the better to discern the features of a tall young man hurrying towards them through the promenaders on the front.