In her eyes he had always been a hero, one of the best of men. In truth, he was by nature a man any girl might love—frank, independent, brave, fearless. Barbara felt that she loved him all the more because his great riches slightly oppressed him, because his grief for his young cousin’s untimely death had for the time upset his nerves. She felt that her devotion, her love must work wonders. When she found that he did not care to talk about the house and wealth which had come to him so unexpectedly, Barbara also avoided the subject. She had made up her mind, however. She knew that what Pelham wanted was plenty of occupation. Their honeymoon, therefore, should not be too long—they would go back to England within a month or six weeks, and take up the onerous duties which now had fallen on their shoulders. When he worked, when he went in and out amongst his people, when he took up the position of landlord on a large scale, Pelham would drop that gloom which enveloped him like a mantle. Four weeks passed by, and the bride began to have anxious moments with regard to the approaching return to England. She had always lived a busy life, and did not care for a _dolce far niente_ existence longer than could be helped. The pair were spending their last week at Glion. The hotel where they were staying would be closed at the end of a month. On a certain evening they stood together on a balcony outside the big drawing-room. A waiter brought them coffee; they sat with a small table between them. Pelham was smoking a fragrant cigar, and Barbara in one of her pretty white dresses looked shadowy and ethereal in the half-light. “Dick, do you know what this reminds me of?” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “No,” he answered. He started when she touched him, for he was given to starting of late. “It reminds me of that happy night when you asked me if I would be your wife. I had two proposals that night.” Barbara laughed as she spoke. “Before you said those words which made me the happiest girl in the world Dr. Tarbot had spoken of his love. We were on the balcony just outside the drawing-room in Mark Place. The light was subdued—something like this—Dr. Tarbot spoke with great and strange passion. I see his face even now, and the queer look in his eyes when I refused him. All the time he was speaking I could not help thinking that I hated him more each moment. I left him on the balcony and went into the drawing-room. Then you met me and we strolled together to the conservatories. Do you remember, Dick?” “Yes,” he answered. “Do you remember the scent of that rose? It was a Gloire de Dijon. You touched it with your fingers as you spoke.” “Yes,” he replied again, and now he stretched out his hands and clasped one of hers, holding it in a warm pressure. “I am the luckiest fellow in the world,” he said, “but I wish to heaven I could——” “You could do what?” she answered. “Get rid of that suspicion or—or verify it.”