“Loved me?” He finished the sentence for her slowly, all his affectation of hardness dropping like a mask. “No, you are right. That always settled it. I know I’m a fool,” he went on in a perfectly quiet voice. “Don’t think I don’t know it. I’m like a child crying because a star never came down from the sky to--to be treasured by him.” Rose put out her hand to him, the room swimming before her eyes. “Dear old Dick!” He drew himself up. “I’m off,” he said, abruptly. “Good-bye, Mrs. Summers.” He took both her hands in one of his. “You won’t stay to see----” began Rose in irresolute consternation. “No,” he returned, firmly. “After all, I’ve said good-bye.” She looked at him, and did not argue. “God bless you, Dick,” she whispered. “Give my love to Cecily,” he said, turning at the door. That was all. Rose heard his footsteps down the hall--heard the hall door close. She was still standing in the middle of the room, where he had left her; she did not know how long she had been standing there, when Cecily came in. “He’s gone,” cried Rose. “He wouldn’t stay. Shall I call him back?” she asked, desperately. “He told me you had said good-bye.” Cecily was very pale. She turned a little paler before she spoke. “No,” she said, slowly. “He is right. Don’t call him. We have said good-bye.” “Cis?” whispered Rose. “Is it all right?” “Oh, yes! I suppose it’s all right,” she answered in a dazed voice. Then she went into her bedroom and shut the door. Rose did not follow her. CHAPTER XXVII It was after dusk the following evening when Robert drove across town from Liverpool Street. He had telegraphed to one of the servants, who had lived with them since their marriage, that he should return that evening, and as he neared the desolate home he pictured, he was thinking drearily that some settlement of the situation was inevitable. He had no hope of Cecily. Rose had said so little that he had returned from his visit to her more despondent than ever. She must be in Cecily’s confidence. She knew Cecily’s attitude--and she had said nothing; given him no comfort. The outlook was inexpressibly dreary. He longed for Cecily. She was never out of his thoughts. She haunted his dreams--his terrible, mocking dreams. In these nightly visions, he saw her over and over again; in the garden at the Priory, walking bareheaded under the trees, smiling as she ran towards him. Or he turned, to find her at the door, her eyes full of laughter, her arms outstretched to him. Always the radiant, happy Cecily of their early married life. And then the waking--the heart-breaking return to reality; his shame, his bitter, useless self-reproach.