Scarlett leant back in his chair, twirling the pencil between his fingers and looking at Barbara, whose eyes were fixed upon the rug. They were alone in the drawing-room of a house in Kensington. Their wedding was to be in about six weeks' time, and Barbara was staying for a fortnight with an aunt who had undertaken to help her in her shopping--a delightful aunt who paid bills, and who liked a quiet nap in the afternoon. Adrian sometimes went out with them, and always showed great respect for the good lady's slumbers. "Well," he said, after a pause, "and where is Mr. Harding now?" "At his mother's. She lives at Westbourne Park." "Westbourne Park," Scarlett repeated. "By Jove, that's a change from Mitchelhurst! A nice healthy neighbourhood, and convenient for Whiteley's, I suppose; but _what_ a change! I say, Barbara, how do you happen to know so much about the Hardings?" "Adrian!" And again she seemed to appeal and hesitate in the mere utterance of his name. She crossed the room, and touched his shoulder with her left hand, which had a ring shining on it--a single emerald, a point of lucid colour on her slim finger. "Adrian, I wanted to ask you, would there be any harm if----" "No," said Adrian gravely, "no harm at all. Not the slightest. Certainly not." He took her other hand in his. She looked doubtfully at him. "What do you mean?" "What do _you_ mean, Barbara?" "I wanted to go to the door and ask how he is--that's all. I feel as if I shouldn't like to go away without a word. We didn't part quite good friends, you know. And last year he was making his plans, and now we are making ours, and he----Oh, Adrian, why is life so sad? And yet I never thought I _could_ be as happy as I am now." "It's rather mixed, isn't it?" he said, smiling up at her, and he drew her hand to his lips. Barbara's eyes were full of tears. To hide them, she stooped quickly and touched his hair with a fleeting kiss. "By all means go and ask after your friend before you leave town," said Adrian. "Let us hope he isn't as bad as they think." "He is," said the girl. Long before this she had told Adrian about her night adventure at Mitchelhurst. She had been perfectly frank about it, and yet she sometimes doubted her own confession. It seemed so little when she spoke of it to him, so unimportant, so empty of all meaning. Could it be that, and only that, which had troubled her so strangely? He had smiled as he listened, and had put it aside. "I don't suppose you did very much harm," he said, "but any one with half an eye could see that he wasn't the kind of fellow to take things easily. Poor Barbara!" She stood now with something of the same perplexity on her brow; the thought of Reynold Harding always perplexed her. There was a brief silence, during which she abandoned her hands to Adrian's clasp, and felt his touch run through her, from sensitive finger tips to her very heart. Then she spoke quickly, yet half unwillingly, "Very well then, I shall go."