"I wonder you didn't think of that before," remarked Roger severely. "I hope you see what an idiot you've been?" "Yes," said Alwynne meekly. She did not flash out at him as he had hoped she would: but her manner had grown calm, and her eyes were peaceful. "Poor little Louise!" said Alwynne slowly. "So we needn't think about her any more? She's to be dead, and buried, and forgotten. It sounds harsh, doesn't it? But she is dead--and I've only been keeping her alive in my mind all this year. Is that what you mean?" "Yes," he said. "And if it were not as I think it is, sheer imagination--if your grieving and fear really kept a fraction of her personality with you, to torment you both--let her go now, Alwynne. Say good-bye to her kindly, and let her go home." She looked at him gravely for a moment. Then she turned from him to the empty house of flowers. "Good-bye, Louise!" said Alwynne, simply as a child. About them was the evening silence. The sun, sinking over the edge of the world, was a blinding glory. Out of the flowers rose the butterfly, found an open pane and fluttered out on the evening air, straight into the heart of the sunlight. They watched it with dazzled eyes. CHAPTER XXXVI Alwynne had gone to bed early. She confessed to being tired, as she bade her cousins good-night, and, indeed, she had dark rings about her eyes; but her colour was brilliant as she waited at the foot of the stairs for her candle. Roger had followed her into the hall and was lighting it. The thin flame flickered between them, kindling odd lights in their eyes. "Good-night," said Alwynne, and went up a shallow step or two. "Good-night," said Roger, without moving. She turned suddenly and bent down to him over the poppy-head of the balustrade. "Good-night," said Alwynne once more, and put out her hand. "You're to sleep well, you know," he said authoritatively. She nodded. Then, with a rush-- "Roger, I do thank you. I do thank you very much." "That's all right," said Roger awkwardly. Alwynne went upstairs. He watched her disappear in the shadows of the landing, and took a meditative turn up and down the long hall before he returned to the drawing-room. He felt oddly responsible for the girl; wished that he had some one to consult about her.... His aunts? Dears, of course, but ... Alicia, possibly.... Certainly not Jean.... Nothing against them ... dearest women alive ... but hardly capable of understanding Alwynne, were they? Without at all realising it he had already arrived at the conviction that no one understood Alwynne but himself. He caught her name as he re-entered the room. "Ever so much better! A different creature! Don't you think so, Roger?" "Think what?" "That Alwynne's a new girl? It's the air. Nothing like Dene air. But, of course, you didn't see her when she first came. A poor white thing! She'd worked herself to a shadow. How Elsbeth allowed it----" Jean caught her up.