She strolled out through the quiet winter lanes when Cristiane was gone. She was very pale to-day, very languid, a presentiment of evil was heavy at her heart. Her mother had been mad to go to London; she herself was more idiotic, still, to think that Miles Cylmer would ever care for her. Tired at last, she sat down on a stile between two fields, and leaned back, staring in front of her. Somehow, her heart was faint within her to-day, but why any more than yesterday? “Because I sha’n’t see him, and I want him,” she thought dreamily. “I want something that will strengthen me, something that I can look back to, and think that nothing matters since I was happy once. And I will be happy. I will!” Her scarlet mouth was so determined that a man who had come up unnoticed smiled as he saw it. Yet briefly, for her face was pathetically weary, more than ever it bore that prophecy of tragedy that seemed so out of place for Ismay Trelane. “Where are your thoughts?” Cylmer said lightly. “Oh, did I startle you?” For Ismay, who never blushed, had turned first a faint rose, then a fiery scarlet, that burned on her smooth cheeks. “My thoughts?” Confused, she put her hands to her face. “Oh, anywhere. Yes, of course, you startled me.” But she was mistress of herself again now, and she smiled into his eyes as he stood before her, cap in hand. “I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?” Why did the girl’s glance go to his head like wine? Why did he think of nothing, want nothing, but to sit and talk with the daughter of an adventuress whom he scarcely knew? He sat down beside her on the stile. “I was going to see you,” he said, “though, I must say, I was shy about it. Your mother, with excellent reason, hates me.” “My mother has gone to London,” simply. “And I don’t think Cristiane is overfond of my society.” “Why not?” she asked languidly. “Good taste, I suppose,” was the answer, and both laughed. “I was taking you something. Will you have it?” he asked, and she saw that he carried something. Before she could answer he had laid in her lap a great bunch of roses, crimson, sweet smelling. The girl stared at them as they lay in her lap. In all her life no one had ever given her a flower. She put the roses to her face with a quick tenderness no one had ever seen in her. As she looked up at him, her eyes were very deep and soft. She held the roses tightly in both hands. “Why are you giving them to me?” she said wonderingly. “Because you’ve had so little. Because I thought you might like them.” “I do.” Her voice was very low. “But how do you know I’ve had--so little?” “Lord De Fort told me,” was on his tongue, but it stuck there. “Do you remember that night at the Palace?” he asked, instead. “Shall I tell you what I saw there? A girl in a threadbare black gown, worn at the elbows, and too thin for the weather; a girl who was pale and very tired, but more beautiful than any woman I had ever seen. Do you know that, Ismay?” “No,” she whispered.