Scene by scene the events of the last hour spread themselves before her: the maddened brute rushing violently over the soft, smooth lawn to where the treacherous stream awaits him, running gently between its damp green banks--Sir Christopher's danger--Fabian's unexpected interference--the short, but terrible fear for him--and then the sudden fall from the extreme agony of suspense to comparative calm. And yet, perhaps, all this does not haunt her so much as one or two other things, that, in reality, were of little moment. That time, for instance, when he--Fabian--stood beneath the balcony, and when he, with a glance, a half-spoken word, accused her of coldness and indifference. He had condemned her all too willingly. But this was only fair, no doubt. Had not she, in her innermost heart, condemned him, unheard, unquestioned. And what was it he had said to Dulce? "Take example by your cousin; see how sensible _she_ can be," or something like that. Sensible! When this terrible pain was tugging at her heart strings, and prolonged nervousness had made speech impossible. And why had he said "_your_ cousin," instead of "our cousin?" Was it that he did not care to claim kinship with her, or because--because--he did not count himself worthy--to-- Again she raises her hand, and presses it with undue force against her left side. She is unhappy and alone, and full of a vague uncertainty. "Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows," and all the shadows of her grief seem now to hem her in, and encompass her on every side. The old troublesome pain in her heart, that drove her from the dissipations of town life to seek a shelter in the quiet country, returns to her again. At this moment the pain of which I speak grows almost past endurance. A faint, gray pallor supersedes the vivid carmine of a while ago. She sighs with evident difficulty, and sinks back heavily amongst her cushions. CHAPTER XII. "Friendship is constant in all other things, Save in the office and affairs of love." --MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. "I SHOULD think if we are going to give our dance at all, it ought to be soon," says Dulce, with a shrug and a somewhat listless little yawn. "So we ought," says Dicky Browne, briskly. It seems the most natural thing in the world that he should use the first person plural, and that he should appear to be the chief promoter of the dance in question. "We've been talking of it a considerable lot, you know," he goes on, confidentially, "and they will all think it a dodge on your part if you don't give it within the next fortnight." "A dodge!" says Miss Blount, very justly incensed. "What dodge?" "Well, look here," says Dicky--"there once was a fellow--"