'You _did_ write, then?' she said. 'I am glad of that. But the letter never came. I never dreamed that there was the slightest hope till I saw you here. I hardly dared to speak to you at first. And how do you come to be here at all? You have not told me that yet.' 'I was on my way to punish a scoundrel,' he said abruptly, 'but I had almost forgotten all that. Never mind about me, Mabel; tell me about yourself now. You don't know how I have been longing for the very smallest news of you!' 'What am I to tell you?' said Mabel smiling. 'Where shall I begin, Vincent?' 'Well, first, your own question back again,' he said. 'How do _you_ come to be here, and all alone? Are your people at the hotel? Am I to see them to-night?' 'My people are all at Glenthorne just now,' said Mabel with some natural surprise, which, however, only made Vincent conclude she must be travelling with friends. Were they her future parents-in-law, he wondered jealously. He could not rest till he knew how that was. 'Mabel,' he said earnestly, 'they told me you were engaged; is it true?' She had not yet grown quite accustomed to her new dignity as a wife, and felt a certain shyness in having to announce it to Vincent. 'It was,' she said, looking down; 'it is not true now. Haven't you really heard that, Vincent?' But, instead of reading her embarrassment aright, he saw in it an intimation that his worst fears were without foundation. He had not come too late. She was free--there was hope for him yet. But even then he did not dare to express the wild joy he felt. 'Do you mean,' he said--and his voice betrayed nothing--'that it is broken off?' 'Broken off!' she repeated, with a little touch of bewilderment. 'Why--oh, Vincent, what a dreadful thing to ask! I thought you would understand, and you don't a bit. I am not engaged now, because--because this is my wedding journey!' If Vincent had been slow to understand before, he understood now. It was all over; this was final, irrevocable. The radiant prospect which had seemed to open a moment before to his dazzled eyes had closed for ever. For a moment or two he did not speak. If he had made any sound it would have been a cry of pain; but he repressed it. That must be his secret now, and he would keep it till death. He kept it well then at least, for there was no faltering in his voice as he said slowly, 'I did not know. You will let me congratulate you, Mabel, and--and wish you every happiness.' 'Thank you, Vincent,' said Mabel not too warmly, thinking that, from so old a friend as Vincent, these felicitations were cold and conventional. 'You are happy, are you not?' he asked anxiously.