Honor’s anger had as usual cooled. She now began to see things from his point of view, and her indignation immediately transferred itself to Captain Waring. Mr. Jervis had been the tool and catspaw of that unscrupulous free-and-easy gentleman. Yes, she now understood the former’s halting allusions to hunting and polo, his half-uttered sentences, and how he had suddenly paused, stammered, and would evidently have been glad to recall his own words. Once or twice she had caught a glimpse, instantly suppressed, of a slightly peremptory manner, the tone and air of one accustomed to being obeyed. She remembered, too, his easy familiarity with money, his--as she had hitherto considered it--insane generosity. Meanwhile Mark ran down and picked up the white fan from its lily bed, shook the dew-drops from its delicate feathers, and, as he restored it to its owner, he looked straight into her eyes. “Honor,” he said, in a low eager voice, “you will let bygones be bygones, and forgive me, won’t you?” Honor hesitated, her lips trembled as if uncertain whether to laugh or to cry. “You like me a little--I hope,” he pleaded anxiously. The lips broke into a faint but unmistakable smile. “You are the only girl I have ever cared two straws about. I swear that this is the _truth_, and not the usual stock statement. I had a presentiment that you were my fate that night we walked along the railway line. That Eurasian fellow in the hut had a prophetic eye!” “I am not so sure of that!” she said, with sudden vehemence. “You knew very well that you ought to have spoken out _long_ ago.” “I would have spoken to you weeks ago, but that I was uncertain what answer you would give me.” “Oh!” recoiling with a gesture of indescribable horror. “What do you think I meant? I mean, that you might have let us all know who you were.” “Better late than never, I hope,” he rejoined quickly. “My uncle knows all about you. May I speak to your aunt to-night?” “What do you wish to tell her?” she faltered. “That I am going to be her nephew,” he answered, with the utmost composure. “No--no--no,” bursting into a half-hysterical laugh, “you must give me time--I want to think it over.” “Honor,” coming close to her, and resolutely taking her trembling hand in his, “can you not think it over _now_? Will you marry me?” Although her fingers shook in his hold, she held herself nervously erect, as she stood looking out over the moon-flooded mountains in silence, her eyes fixed on the far-away horizon with the gaze of one lost in meditation. She was crowding many thoughts into the space of seconds. Among them this-- “The gloved hand in which hers was imprisoned, how strong and steadfast--a brave hand to guide and support and defend her through life.” At last, with tremulous nervous abruptness, she made this totally irrelevant and unexpected remark--