"Eugenia, what is the matter?" he exclaimed impulsively. "You are as cold as ice--you must be ill." She felt his eyes fixed upon her: extreme annoyance gave her momentary strength. "Don't, Gerald, please, don't," she said, half beseechingly, half petulantly. "There is nothing the matter. I may have got a chill, that is all. But please don't look at me. I do so dislike it." She rose, resolved to put an end to his scrutiny. "I _will_ get across the room," she thought. She made two or three steps feebly but determinedly, wondering vaguely what had come to her feet, they felt so powerless and heavy; then, it seemed to her, she stepped suddenly down, down into unfathomable depths, into darkness compared to which midnight was as noon-day. "I am dying," she thought to herself before her senses quite deserted her. "What will _he_ think, how will he feel when he hears it?" And it seemed to her she called aloud with her last breath. "Beauchamp! oh, Beauchamp!" In reality the words were a barely audible whisper, which would certainly have been unintelligible to ears less jealously sharp than those of her one hearer. "My darling," muttered Gerald, "so it is his doing, is it?" The first two words made their way to Eugenia's not yet quite unconscious brain. Afterwards she thought she must have dreamt that Beauchamp had answered her cry. She had never fainted before. She could not at all understand the painful coming back to life; to finding herself after all--instead of awaking in the mysterious country across the river of which we know so little, so terribly little--in the old way again, lying on the drawing-room sofa, with a keen cold current of air blowing in her face. "Where am I?" she said, as people always do say in such circumstances, glancing round her, apprehensively. But before Gerald had time to reply, her wits had sufficiently recovered themselves to take in the position. It had not been much of a faint after all; her young life had not required much doctoring to regain its balance for the time. Mr Thurston had merely carried her to the window, and opened it to allow the fresh air to try what it could do. Then, laying her on the sofa, he was glad to see she was coming round again without his requiring to summon the assistance which he felt certain she would shrink from. The room was bright with fire-light, and the cold air still blew in freshly. Eugenia lay still for a minute or two, gazing before her. Then she tried to rouse herself, and after a moment's hesitation, seeing she could hardly manage it, Gerald put his arm round her, and helped her to sit up. He need not have been afraid of annoying her. She took his help with the most perfect simplicity, as if he had been her brother.