Now this fresh stroke had fallen. Now, it might be, the choice was no longer his. Instead of being allowed to put things straight himself— as he had always purposed to do some day—it seemed that the wrong-doing was about to find him out, that the truth might become known without choice on his part. "It was for your sake, my Mary!" he murmured, gazing at the lovely marble figure. "For your sake—my darling!" The thought came—was it not conceivable that, even if he had lost her by right action, life without her, and without also this clogging weight on heart and conscience, might have been not only better, fairer, but actually happier? And—he might not have lost her. At the time it seemed as if he must; but since then he had learned how she loved him from the first. What if she would have clung to him through all? What if the whole miserable tissue of guile and duplicity had been, not only wrong, but needless? CHAPTER XXXII "You Don't Know Dick" NOT a word about Dick Maurice was spoken that first evening. Twice Doris tried to bring him forward, and was rebuffed,—very kindly, yet decidedly. She could not resolve to do it again. She seemed to be under a spell; able only to bask in the sunshine of home, in the loving welcome from all sides. And though she thought of her lover continually, yet in a manner he was pushed to the background of her mind. Switzerland already began to look far off. Her feelings had become mixed and indefinite. She had almost the sensations of a naughty child, come back to be good. Everybody and everything had to be seen,—servants, neighbours, friends, household pets. The hours slipped fast away; and while much talk went on, it was talk mainly of Lynnbrooke interests. Mrs. Winton left no space for aught else. Doris was amply posted in local news; and the name "Stirling" came up perpetually. When she went to bed, it was to dream of Dick. They were on the Glückhorn together; just he and she. Once more she was trying to climb to the rescue. Details differed, as they are apt to do in a dream; and the rock-wall of her sleeping fancy would have been ludicrous in the eyes of an Alpinist; but to her it seemed natural enough. In dreamland nothing is absurd. She mounted the rocks, reached Maurice, and then, as he clasped her hand, she found him to be—not Dick, but Hamilton Stirling, in frock coat and kid gloves, solemn and dignified. The rocky height vanished; and he and she were on a high road; and he pulled a printed slip out of his pocket, offering it for her inspection. She woke up, and had a laugh; yet she felt disgust with herself for having reverted in thought to the latter, even in slumber. "As if I had anything to do with him now! Oh, how curious life is! Everything seems such a muddle."