Marcia flushed a little--an added beauty. As she sat there in a white hat and dress, canopied by the white trees, and lit by a warm reflected light, she stirred in Newbury's senses once more a thrilling delight made all the keener perhaps by the misgiving, the doubts which invariably accompanied it. She could be so gracious; and she could be so dumb and inaccessible. Again and again he had been on the point of declaring himself during the last few weeks, and again and again he had drawn back, afraid lest the decisive word from him should draw the decisive word from her, and it should be a word of denial. Better--better infinitely--these doubts and checks, than a certainty which would divide him from her. This morning indeed he found her all girlish gentleness and appeal. And it made his own task easier. For he also had matters on his mind. But she anticipated him. "I want to talk to you about Corry--my brother!" she said, bending toward him. [Illustration: THIS MORNING HE FOUND HER ALL GIRLISH GENTLENESS AND APPEAL] There was a child in Marcia, and she could evoke it when she pleased. She evoked it now. The young man before her hungered, straightway, to put out his arms to her--gathering her to him caressingly as one does with the child that clings and confides. But instead he merely smiled at her with his bright conscious eyes. "I, too, want to talk to you about Coryston," he said, nodding. "We know he's behaving dreadfully--abominably!" laughed Marcia, but with a puckered brow. "Mr. Lester tells me there was a great attack on Lord and Lady William yesterday in the Martover paper. Mother hasn't seen it yet--and I don't want to read it--" "Don't!" said Newbury, smiling. "But mother will be so ashamed, unhappy, when she knows! So am I. But I wanted to explain. We suffer just as much. He's stirring up the whole place against mother. And now that he's begun to attack you, I thought perhaps that if you and I--" "Took counsel! Excellent!" "We might perhaps think of some way of stopping it." "He's much more acutely angry with us at present than with anything your mother does," said Newbury, gravely! "Has he told you?" "No, but--he means to," said the girl, hesitating. "It is not unfair I think I should anticipate him. You will have his version afterward. I got an extraordinary letter from him this morning. It is strange that he cannot see we also plead justice and right for what we do--that if we satisfied his conscience we should wound our own."