It must be admitted that Alice was watching in the distance, watching with a triumphant heart, for it was at her telling that he had been admitted to the rose-garden--Alice, who had an old score to pay off. “I have come to apologise.” Marigold clasped her hands in front--always a dangerous attitude with her--and looked at him with a little cold surprise, bent on not answering. He bit his lip, as well he might; yet made another clean breast of it. “I didn’t know who you were.” Scorn arose and flashed out of the beautiful eyes. “That accounts for everything, then. Your conduct under those circumstances was quite excusable.” “You do not understand me.” “I--I understand you perfectly. Perhaps I--I ought to apologise too. I--I forgot myself for--for a little while. I--I took you for some one else. I--I----” Everything had died away from Marigold now that she had begun to speak--everything, except the pretty, unconscious attitude, and those wonderful eyes, half-truthful, half-frightened, with no acting at all. “Then,” said he gently, “let us forget it.” But she shook her head. “I can’t.” And her hand went up to the ribbon at her throat unconsciously. “I--I hurt you.” “Oh no; but if you were a gentleman you would keep away. I--I was very silly, but I was ill.” “Yes. You had been so very kind to Timothy.” Marigold’s eyes fell to the ground, and she clenched her hands tightly as each fell suddenly to her side, for, at the mention of the little cripple child and the accompanying tenderness of tone, the old dangerous feeling began to rise in her, almost suffocating her. It was one of the few times when she ceased to look beautiful, for the wave of feelings, and the great will-power needed to at all subdue or rather hide them, gave to every feature a strange, hard, full look not its own. “Yes, I was kind, and you were kinder. We’ll let that pass, and other things. You must go.” Her voice, too, was thick and unnatural. “Then you must forgive me.” “No, no, I never can. There are a hundred things for which I never can forgive you.” “My only fault all through was that I misunderstood you.” “Rather that you hated me.” “I misunderstood you. You said you were a beggar girl, and I believed you.” “How contemptible you are! Holy Serpent! what are men coming to, to see no shame in their own cowardice and lack of chivalry?” “Marigold, I----” “You will perhaps remember my title; this familiarity is the last insult. If you will not go, I shall send for the--the footman to show you the--the gate.” She expected some retort, but did not get it, for he stood there, his head bent towards the ground. “If you will not forgive me, I must cease to ask for your forgiveness. But you cannot prevent my feeling shame and sorrow for what I did so unaccountably, so unexpectedly. You say you were tired with nursing Timothy; perhaps I was tired too.”