In short, the girl's determination carried the day. "Do not let us think of Mrs. Grundy," said she; "let us only think that Denzil is ill, and wants me. He has every right to have me, if I can get to him by any means in my power." CHAPTER XXIV VERONICA "ON HER OWN" And so I look upon your face again. What have the years done for me since we met? Which has prevailed, the joy of life or pain? Do you recall our parting, or forget? Show me your face. No! Turn it from my sight! It is a mask. I would lay bare your heart. You will not show me that? I have no right To read it? ... Then I know my doom. We part. _Words for a Song._ In after days, when Veronica looked back upon that journey, it seemed to her as if it had lasted for months. As its slow hours crept by, she grew to have a feeling that she had been traveling ever since she could remember, and must go on traveling till she died. The train moved on, and on, and on, like a thing which, once started, can never stop again. After the first twelve hours she had a bad attack of train sickness, an ailment from which she had never before suffered; and she lay sleepless during the night hours, with aching head and parched mouth, tossing about on her berth, and with her mind unable to detach itself, even for a moment, from a thought so dreadful that never, till faced by this dreary solitude, had she dared to put it into words. She knew, she had known, ever since their interview in the rock garden, that she no more loved Denzil than she loved his absent brother. She did not love him, and she vehemently desired not to marry him. Yet, somehow or other, she had caused him to believe that she returned his affection. She was, practically, engaged to him. She had deceived both brothers, and it seemed to her that, search as deeply as might be into her own heart, she had not done so wittingly. The case simply was that her heart had never been aroused. Her hour had not come. She did not know love. Each of these two young men had wanted of her something which she had not to bestow. To each she had offered in return something else. There was, however, one notable distinction between the two affairs. Felix had excited her best feelings. She had felt for him pity, sympathy, the instinctive womanly desire to comfort and sympathize with the lonely, the unfortunate. Denzil, on the other hand, had stood in her imagination for home, peace, safety, well-being. It had been her selfishness which had responded to his call. He could give her an assured position, and life in the surroundings which she loved. Felix was the asker, Denzil the bestower. To marry Felix demanded sacrifice; to marry Denzil was to accept benefits at his hands.