By the early afternoon he was in a pitiable state. Should he send notes to the Duchess and Breton telling them both that he was too unwell, too cross, too sleepy, too "anything" to see them? Should he retire to bed and leave Peters to make his excuses? Should he disappear and tell Rachel to deal with them? _What_ a scene there'd be between the three of them! His illness had made a difference to his nerve, lying there on one's back took the grit away, gave one too much time to think, showed one such momentous issues. On the events of this afternoon might hang all his life and all Rachel's! His capture of her was indeed now to be put to the test!... II Rachel came into his room at four o'clock. She carried a great bunch of violets and a paper parcel. She smiled across the room at him; a cap of white fur on her head, and the hand with the violets held also a large white muff. "Roddy--I'm coming to have tea with you--alone. You'll be out to everyone, won't you? But first, see what I've brought you." She was dreadfully excited, he thought, as though she knew already the kind of thing that awaited her. Her smile was nervous, and that trembling of her upper lip, as though she would, perhaps, cry and perhaps would laugh but really was not sure, always told him when she was afraid. "See what I've brought you!" She put the violets down upon the table beside him--"Now! Look!" She undid the paper and held up to his gaze a deep, gleaming silver lustre bowl, a beautiful bowl because of its instant friendliness and richness and completeness--"I found it!" she said, "staring at me out of a shop window, demanding to be bought. I thought you'd like it." She put it on his table, found water and filled it, then arranged the violets in it. "Oh! my dear! it's beautiful!" he said, and then, with his eyes fixed upon her face, watched her arrange the flowers. But he brought out at last, "I'm afraid I can't promise to be alone for tea." "Oh!" she stepped back from the flowers and looked at him. They faced one another, the silver bowl between them. She stood, as she always did, when she had something difficult to face, her long hands straight at her side, her hands slowly closing and unclosing, her eyes fixed upon some far distance. "Roddy, please!" she said, "I do want to be alone with you this afternoon. I have a special, very special reason. I want to talk." "You see----" he said. "No," she cried impatiently. "We _must_ have this afternoon to ourselves. Tell Peters that you're too ill, too tired, anything. I'm sure, after all that storm last night, it would be perfectly natural if you were. Now, please, Roddy." "I'm awfully sorry, Rachel dear. If I'd only known. If you'd only told me last night." "I didn't know myself last night. How could I? But now--it's most awfully important, Roddy. I've--I've something to tell you." His heart beat thickly, his eyes shone. "Well, they won't stay long, I dare say." "Who are they?"