Mark himself, without and within, was all that she would have a man be—she, who seemed fated to attract only the ‘poor things’ of earth. Since Ailsa’s death and his return from Europe, she had worshipped him, with the still intensity of her northern nature. So felicitous had been their relation, and she so young, so happy in a home atmosphere the very antithesis of her own, that no afterthought had troubled her unclouded content. For this reason, she had been able to accept, loyally, uncritically, his sudden and bewildering infatuation for a girl obviously unworthy of him; an infatuation that could survive even his knowledge of the motive which had prompted Bel to such unsparing use of her power. Entirely one with him in spirit, she could not choose but will what he willed: and conviction that Bel honestly loved him had mitigated the pain of her own hidden disappointment in him. But now even that faint consolation was gone: and here, where associations were more intimate than at Inveraig, the shock to her belief in him seemed infinitely harder to bear. Here the question forced itself upon her—how _could_ he, being what he was? And his fresh appeal on behalf of Bel had badly shaken her innate capacity for acceptance. Because of that appeal—which would also be made to the others—this girl, who had so cruelly tormented him for her own ends, must not be allowed to suffer a twinge of the discomfort she so richly deserved. For the first time, Sheila was goaded almost to the point of rebellion. For the first time her will was at odds with his: and it hurt more than she chose to admit. From a child she had invented her own private code of courage that never allowed her to say ‘I can’t bear it.’ And she would not say it now. She would do what he asked, under protest, because he asked it. Her attitude, she was convinced, would matter nothing to Bel, who obviously looked down on her, from the attitude of her twenty-nine years, with a mild good-humoured contempt. But it would matter greatly to Mark;—and that sufficed. She rose at last and wandered round the beloved room. Before the Viking she stood a long while, trying to draw the valiant soul of him into her own soul: then she went reluctantly out. As she closed the door behind her, Mark opened his own and smilingly confronted her. ‘Hullo! Is that the way you dress for dinner?’ She coloured a little under his gaze. ‘I couldn’t resist going in—just to greet them all.’ ‘Well—you might have let me come too! Are they such very special friends?’ ‘A part of me—almost,’ she said very low. ‘I’ve known most of them—haven’t I?—ever since they were born.’ Then she went quickly down the passage; and for several seconds Mark stood looking after her. The sudden softening of his whole face, could she have seen it, would have been balm to her heart. CHAPTER XII. The heavens such grace did lend her That she might admired be. SHAKSPERE.