"I promise," says Dulce, very faintly. Then she withdraws the hand from his, and without another word, not even a hint at what the gaining of her freedom may mean to either--or rather both--of them, they go slowly back to the garden, where they meet all the others sitting in a group upon a huge circular rustic seat beneath a branching evergreen; all, that is, except Fabian, who of late has become more and more solitary in his habits. As Stephen has not put in an appearance at the Court now for fully two days, speculation is rife as to what has become of him. "It is the oddest thing I ever knew," Julia is saying, as the cousins come up to the rustic-seat. "What is it?" asks Roger, idly. "Stephen's defection. He used to be as true as the morning post, and now--I hope he hasn't made away with himself," says Dicky Browne. "He has had since this time yesterday to do it," says Sir Mark. "I wonder if it takes long to cut one's throat." "It entirely depends on whether you have sharpened your razor sufficiently, and if you know _how_ to sharpen it. I should think a fellow devoid of hirsute adornment would take a good while to it," returns Mr. Browne, with all the air of one who knows. "He wouldn't be up to it, you know. But our late lamented Stephen was all right. He shaved regular." "He was at the lake yesterday," says Portia. "He came up to us from the southern end of it." At this both Dulce and Roger start, and the former changes color visibly. "I really wonder _where_ he can be," says Julia. "So do I," murmurs Dulce, faintly, but distinctly, feeling she is in duty bound to say something. "Stephen never used to miss a day." "Here I am, if you want me," says Stephen, coming leisurely up to them from between the laurels. "I thought I heard somebody mention my name." He is looking pale and haggard, and altogether unlike the languid, unemotional Stephen of a month ago. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his mouth looks strangely compressed, and full of an unpleasant amount of determination. "I mentioned it," says Dulce. She is compelled to say this, because he has fixed his eyes upon her, and plainly everybody expects her to reply to him. "Did you want me?" asks he, casting a scrutinizing glance upon her. So absorbed is he in his contemplation of her that he has positively forgotten the fact that he has omitted to bid any one a "fair good-morrow." "I was certainly wondering where you were," says Dulce, evasively. She is frightened and subdued--she scarcely knows why. There is something peculiar in his manner that overawes her. "It was very good of you to remember my existence. Then you were only wondering at my absence. You did not want me?" Dulce makes no reply. She would have given anything to be able to make some civil, commonplace rejoinder, but at this moment her wits cruelly desert her. "I see. Never mind," says Stephen. "Well, even if you don't want me, I do want _you_--you will come with me as far as the Beeches?"