“It was so lovely, I blew out the candles,” she began. “Yes,” murmured Cecily, absently. She leaned forward and touched her cousin’s dress with trembling fingers. “It wasn’t because I was horrid or anything that I didn’t stay,” she said, incoherently. “It was because I was afraid to begin. I’m afraid to let myself----” She put her hand on her breast with a gesture that, to Rose, was more eloquent than the broken sentence. “Tell me, dear,” she urged. “I would have bitten off my tongue rather than have said all I did to-day, but, apart from that, I can’t help seeing that things are wrong with you. I felt it from the first moment. It made me nervous, I suppose, and so I babbled on like a fool about the first thing that came into my head.” “It doesn’t matter,” returned Cecily, in a weak voice. “It isn’t that.” “Tell me,” urged Rose again. “It’s difficult,” she murmured, after a moment, “because there doesn’t seem anything definite to tell. It’s just _come_ like this.” There was a silence through which Mrs. Summers waited patiently. “Rose,” she heard at last, “you saw Robert with me, before you went away. He seemed in love, didn’t he?” “I never saw any one quite so infatuated.” Mrs. Summers’ reply was emphatic. “And now he speaks of me ‘quite nicely.’... It seems strange, doesn’t it?” She spoke very quietly, as though she were tired. “I shall never forgive myself!” murmured Rose, turning her head away. Cecily was roused. “Don’t worry about that!” she exclaimed. “It’s almost a relief to know that there’s something definite--that it’s not only just boredom--with me.” Before Rose could speak, she added, hastily, as though with a determination to get out the words, “Do you know he’s invited Dick Mayne to stay here?” Rose’s dress rustled with her quick movement of surprise. “_He!_ Invited Dick Mayne?” she echoed. “Yes--Dick Mayne--to amuse me,” replied Cecily. In the moonlight Rose saw the bitter little smile on her lips. “But surely he remembers--why, he used to be as jealous as----” “Hush!” exclaimed Cecily, with a mockery at which her friend winced. “Jealousy is a vulgar passion!” “Don’t!” murmured Mrs. Summers, vaguely. “No,” returned Cecily, after a moment. “Because I suppose there’s a good deal to be said for Robert. I didn’t understand the game. I didn’t understand men a bit when I married, Rose, though I knew so many. And I was no baby either. I was five-and-twenty.” “One can be very much of a baby at five-and-twenty,” observed Mrs. Summers.