The same afternoon the Mayhews and Geoffrey arrived. After five-o’clock tea under the cedar, and a turn round the garden with Reginald, Helen was escorted to her room by her hostess. “Shut the door and come here, Alice; I want to speak to you,” she said imperatively. Alice, knowing from the tone of her voice that a lecture was coming, took a seat in the deep window-sill, and clasping her hands round her knees, looked up at her mentor with grave expectant eyes. “There is _no_ use in your looking at me with the air of a Christian martyr, you tiresome girl. What is this amazing piece of folly that I hear from Reginald?” “I am sure I don’t know,” replied Alice innocently. “He tells me that you received him as an utter stranger!” “Of course I did.” “I assure you, Alice, most solemnly,” said her friend, brandishing her hairbrush to give emphasis to her words, “that his patience is well-nigh exhausted, and you have bitterly, sorely disappointed him. Your power over him is rapidly waning, and no wonder. He told me in plain English that he would trouble himself no longer about you. He came home softened towards you by illness, time, and absence, and, little as you deserved it, laid his laurels at your feet. From all accounts you flung them in his face! What a foolish reckless girl you are! Your happiness comes to you, and you spurn it. ‘Too late, too late!’ will be the answer when you yourself go to seek it ere long.” “But listen to me for one second, Helen,” interrupted Alice, vainly endeavouring to stem the torrent of her friend’s eloquence. “Hear me for an instant. I never expected him to come here; he took me utterly by surprise. Would you have had me volunteer an embrace--after our chilly parting, after three years’ absolute silence? I _did_ humble myself to the very dust before him, and all in vain.” “When? How? You are talking nonsense!” exclaimed Helen excitedly. “Nonsense I fail to understand.” “Promise me, my dear Helen, that you will _never_ breathe it to mortal, not even to Mark,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, I promise,” returned her cousin with almost tragic solemnity. “It was before Maurice was born. He never took any notice. I blush when I think of it,” she continued, burying her face in her hands. “I sent him Maurice’s photo too,” she murmured. “Well!” with a gasp of amazement, “I cannot understand it. But you must remember that you treated him horribly. Do not despair of his forgiveness yet. I am sure that in your heart you love him dearly. Make one effort to win him back for yourself. I know how hard it is to conquer one’s pride, but surely the happiness of your whole life is worth a little humility, just as much as the throne of France was worth a mass.” Laying her hands on Alice’s shoulders, and looking down at her gravely, she said: “If Reginald leaves this to-morrow evening in his present state of mind, you will never see him again as long as you live! that is my firm belief.”