"Ah, what damned nonsense! Do you suppose he's happy, in his foreign field, that golden lover? Why shouldn't even the dead be homesick? No, no--he was sick for home in Germany when he wrote that poem of mine--he's sicker for it in Heaven, I'll warrant." He pulled himself up swiftly at the look of amazement in Daphne's eyes. "I've clean forgotten my manners," he confessed ruefully. "No, don't get that flying look in your eyes--I swear that I'll be good. It's a long time--it's a long time since I've talked to any one who needed gentleness. If you knew what need I had of it, you'd stay a little while, I think." "Of course, I'll stay," she said. "I'd love to, if you want me to." "I want you to more than I've ever wanted anything that I can remember." His tone was so matter-of-fact that Daphne thought that she must have imagined the words. "Now, can't we make ourselves comfortable for a little while? I'd feel safer if you weren't standing there ready for instant flight! Here's a nice bit of grass--and the wall for a back--" Daphne glanced anxiously at the green muslin frock. "It's--it's pretty hard to be comfortable without cushions," she submitted diffidently. The man yielded again to laughter. "Are even Dryads afraid to spoil their frocks? Cushions it shall be. There are some extra ones in the chest in the East Indian room, aren't there?" Daphne let the basket slip through her fingers, her eyes black through sheer surprise. "But how did you know--how did you know about the lacquer chest?" she whispered breathlessly. "'Oh, devil take me for a blundering ass!" He stood considering her forlornly for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders, with the brilliant and disarming smile. "The game's up, thanks to my inspired lunacy! But I'm going to trust you not to say that you've seen me. I know about the lacquer chest because I always kept my marbles there." "Are you--are you Stephen Fane?" At the awed whisper the man bowed low, all mocking grace, his hand on his heart--the sun burnishing his tawny head. "Oh-h!" breathed Daphne. She bent to pick up the wicker basket, her small face white and hard. "Wait!" said Stephen Fane. His face was white and hard too. "You are right to go--entirely, absolutely right--but I am going to beg you to stay. I don't know what you've heard about me--however vile it is, it's less than the truth--" "I have heard nothing of you," said Daphne, holding her gold-wreathed head high, "but five years ago I was not allowed to come to Green Gardens for weeks because I mentioned your name. I was told that it was not a name to pass decent lips." Something terrible leaped in those burned-out eyes--and died. "I had not thought they would use their hate to lash a child," he said. "They were quite right--and you, too. Good night."