"And was it not well I did?--was it not well? Oh, Phyllis, though I sang it so bravely, there was a terrible fear at my heart all the time. I wished him to know, yet I dreaded his knowing. Can you understand? I dreaded his guessing my motive too clearly, and yet it was my last chance." "Dearest, I am so glad." "Ah! what tortures I have endured this past fortnight? I felt convinced he no longer cared for me, and I know I could not be happy without him. But he does love me--more than ever, he says and now I shall have him always." She pauses to indulge in a little rapturous sob. "Phyllis, never mistake obstinacy for pride!" Harriet and I agree in thinking them the most charming of lovers. Indeed, as an engaged pair, they are a pattern to all lovers similarly afflicted. They never glower at us when we enter the room unexpectedly, and they don't blush. They get rid of all inevitable spooning by going for long walks together, where no one can witness or be distressed by their absurd appreciation of each other's society. And they actually refrain from making eyes at each other across the dining-table. When I say that they manage to keep themselves alive to the fact that there are other people in the world besides themselves, I consider I have spoken volumes in their favor and have done them every justice. When they leave at the end of the week I positively miss them, and wish them back again; but, as the wedding is to take place almost immediately, further delay in the country is impossible. Marmaduke and I fall once more into our old ways, seeing as little as may be of each other. Although I will not confess it even to myself, I am sick at heart. With the return of my good health has come back my old horror of loneliness, and the girlish longing for some one to sympathise with me in all the pleasures and troubles of my daily life. Not even the frequent visits of mother, and Dora--who with her husband is staying at Summerleas--can make up to me for what I believe I have lost. When it is too late, I learn how precious a thing I have cast away. By my own capricious folly, and through wilful temper, I have forever alienated 'Duke's affection. Very rarely does he speak to me; still more rarely of his accord does he seek my presence. I no longer afford him any joy. It is only too apparent that he has ceased to care for me. Full of such thoughts and misgivings, I one day creep upstairs to the little turret chamber, where--while still Phyllis Vernon--I once stood with Marmaduke to gaze down upon the crowded parterre beneath. In another tiny apartment opening off this, is a deeply-cushioned window, in which it is my usual practice to sit and read such works as serve to distract my mind from the vague regrets that now forever haunt it.