One step, and she was on the verge of that tremendous depth, which separated this lofty headland from the valley, far far below. Dominated by the one overwhelming thought, she did not dream of danger. A second step—and her foot was over the edge, in empty air. She tottered—staggered—flung out her hands. Maurice, springing to save her, believed for one awful hundredth of a second that he was too late; that she had surmounted the perils of a dangerous rock-climb, to perish from off this grassy mount. The shock of her staggering clutch at the air, as she swayed backwards, drove every vestige of colour from his face; and any less instantaneous leap to the rescue must have failed of its object. She was in the very act of falling, when gripped by his hand and dragged away. "How—could you?" She saw that he was ghastly. "I—don't know. Did I slip?" "What made you?" She tried to withdraw her hand, but he kept a firm grip, led her to the edge, and bade her look over. Where they stood, it seemed that nothing lay between them and the level of the Rhone Valley, thousands of feet below. From the contemplation of that sheer depth, her eyes sought his. "I see! I—had forgotten. And you—you saved me." She gave a shudder. "How quick you were! I can't thank you. It has given you rather a fright." Rather a fright! He drew her to a safe distance, made her sit down, and did the same himself—his face still as white as chalk. She submitted in bewildered silence, conscious that her escapade was being commented on by two or three strangers present, though no one ventured to accost the pair. As she sat by his side, it dawned upon her what her death would have meant to Maurice, had she been thus, in one moment, swept out of his life. Then, reverting to what had gone before, she felt a great wave of pity for him. She could see that he was unnerved, shaken, hardly able to hold himself together. If things were as he said, it was not his fault. He could not be blamed for his parentage. "But I ought to have known sooner," she said to herself. Maurice at length broke the silence. "Was it—what I said? Did that startle you?" Her reply was indistinct. "For days I have felt that I must explain. Especially since your mention of Mr. Stirling. Don't you see?" as she looked puzzled. "It is he who paid for my education." "Oh," vaguely. "Did I speak of him? He is a great friend of ours." "It—has not been easy," Maurice went on, very low. "The temptation to put off has been—tremendous. More than I can explain! But I knew it had to be said. And I thought—if I could get you alone for this walk—" "Yes. I understand." He clenched his fingers upon his stick, till they whitened through their tan. "Was it—what I said about my mother that startled you? Or was it—?" "I have seen your sister Jane," was all she said; and Maurice needed to ask no more. Doris sighed quietly.