She paused for an instant upon entering this enchanted garden, and drew a deep breath of involuntary delight; then, walking slowly, as though haste might desecrate such beauty, she passed down the long smooth lawn that formed an alley of greenness amid the pink and crimson of the flowers. Pausing at the farther end, she stood, soothed by the sights and scents about her, until suddenly a harsh, disturbed cry from one of the peacocks broke the spell. She turned sharply, and saw Deerehurst standing close behind her. "I saw you from my dressing-room window," he said, in answer to her look of surprise. "Was it very presumptuous of me to follow you?" The cold, familiar voice banished the thought of the roses. Her vexations and perplexities came back upon her abruptly, causing her face to cloud over. "No!" she said hastily--"no! I--I think I am glad to see you. I am in a hopeless mood to-day. Things won't go right!" He took her hand and bent over it, with even more than his usual deference, although his cold eyes shot a swift glance at her distressed face. "But you must not say that," he said softly. "Things can always be compelled to go right." She shook her head despondently. "Not for me." He freed her hand gently, and pointed to one of the stone seats that stood under the shadow of the rose bushes. "Shall we sit down?" he said. "There is a great deal of repose to be found in this garden of Lady Diana's. She had it copied many years ago from my rose garden at Ambleigh." Clodagh looked up at him, as they moved together across the grass. "Indeed!" she said--"from your rose garden?" "Yes; she and Tuffnell stayed with me at Ambleigh shortly after they were married--when my sister was alive. And Lady Diana fell in love with my rose garden. I remember I sent a couple of my gardeners down here to plant this one for her. It is an exact reproduction, on a smaller scale." There was silence while they seated themselves; then Clodagh, looking meditatively in front of her at the evil face of one of the stone satyrs, spoke suddenly and impulsively. "I envy you!" she said. "You envy me?" There was a curious, almost an eager tone in Deerehurst's voice; but she was too preoccupied to hear it. "All people are to be envied who have power--and freedom. I get so tired of myself sometimes--so rebellious against myself! I am always doing the things I should not do, and failing to do the things I should. I am hopeless!" For a space he made no attempt to break in upon her mood; then, very quietly, he bent forward and looked up into her face. "What is worrying you?" he asked in a whisper. "Confession really _is_ very good for the soul!" For a moment she answered nothing; then, yielding to an impulse, she met his scrutinising eyes. "Oh, it's only a letter that won't let itself be written--one of those abominable letters that one has to write. Talking of it does no good!" "No good? I am not so sure of that. I believe in talking. Tell me about it!"