But as he followed her a few minutes later upstairs, he wondered what she must have thought of him. With all his efforts, he had been unable to bring himself to utter one word of congratulation. 'It would have been a lie,' he said to himself vehemently; 'how could I find it in my heart to deceive her for a moment? This may be their last happy day, Heaven help them both!' and Michael went to bed in profound wretchedness. 'My roses are withered,' thought Audrey, as she regarded the drooping buds and leaves; 'my poor beautiful roses, and they were Cyril's gift, too. What a pity that flowers must die, and we must grow old--that in this world there must always be decay and change! Shall I ever be happier than I am to-night, with Cyril to love me, and Michael--dear Michael--to be my friend? What makes him so grave? He is always grave now.' And then she sighed and laid down her flowers, and took the glittering cross from her neck. 'My poor Michael! I should like to see him happy, too,' she finished, as she put it away in its case. CHAPTER XXXV 'OLIVE WILL ACKNOWLEDGE ANYTHING' 'Evil, like a rolling stone upon a mountain-top, A child may first impel, a giant cannot stop.'--TRENCH. 'By despising himself too much, a man comes to be worthy of his own contempt.'--AMIEL. Audrey was sure it was the east wind that made everyone so unlike themselves the next morning. Bailey had told her that the wind was decidedly easterly, or, perhaps, more strictly speaking, north-east. She had run down the garden to speak to him about some plants, and perhaps with some intention of intercepting Cyril when he went across to breakfast, and they had had quite a confabulation on the subject. But when she got back to the house she found rather a subdued state of things. Mrs. Ross looked tired; her husband had kept her awake by his restlessness, and she had got it firmly in her mind that a fit of gout was impending. Dr. Ross had once had a touch of gout--a very slight touch, to be sure--but it had given him a wholesome fear of the complaint, and had implanted in him a deep distrust of other men's port wine; and his devoted wife had never forgotten the circumstance. 'And I am sure,' she observed in an undertone to her daughter, 'that if I were not quite certain that there is nothing troubling your father--for, of course, he would have told me of it at once--I should have said there was something on his mind, for he tossed and groaned so; but mark my words, Audrey, it is his old enemy, the gout; and if only I could induce him to speak to Dr. Pilkington we might ward it off still.' 'What is that you are telling the child, Emmie?' asked the Doctor, who had very sharp ears. 'Gout! stuff and nonsense! I never was better in my life.'