Rona acknowledged this with a shy smile. "Let Felix ride your horse awhile, and come and sit with me in the carriage and let us make friends." The suggestion completed the conquest of the big, affectionate fellow. And in this order they made the rest of the journey. * * * * * * * Denzil had opened his eyes that morning to the awful conviction that every dream must have an awakening, and that his awakening was come. Until dawn he had not slept. He had lain awake staring at the ceiling, asking himself helplessly whether it could be true that he, the blameless, the well-conducted, the young man whose sober pulses knew not what it was to quicken, could really be false, could really be shamelessly in love, pushed out of his usual decorum and moderation, carried along upon the swift current of his senses, caring for nothing but this wondrous girl, hoping for nothing but some catastrophe which should keep him forever away from England, and happy at her side. Wild thoughts of offering Normansgrave to Felix, if only he would take Rona away and leave him happy with Nadia, coursed through his mind. Absurd he knew such thoughts to be. But he had cast to the winds all sense, all propriety. He was as much out of himself as a man hopelessly drunk for the first time in his life. Why had he hitherto led so jog-trot, so narrow a life? How could a man, ignorant of the possibilities of existence, judge of what was necessary for his own happiness? Had he only gone forth earlier to see the world, instead of staying at home, reflecting upon his own virtues, he would not have been tempted into that sickly and tepid course of sentiment with a half-grown girl like Rona. And who was Rona? The curtain of romance that had veiled her had been in part drawn back by the Reverend Mother, and her mysterious uncle was now an established fact. Miss Rawson reported him to be woefully second-rate, apart from his moral defects. "Remember," that wise aunt had said, "Felix took her from a lodging in Deptford." And he might have had this creature of fire and magic, this Russian aristocrat, with the blood of Royal Princes in her veins! He was Vanston of Normansgrave, proud of his old, clean name. How could he have indulged so unworthy a dream these last two foolish years? He thought of Nadia, standing in the hall at home, walking in the gardens, learning the ways and customs of an English lady of position. How he would love to show her all the superiorities of his own beloved country! To see her the admired of all the countryside! Mr. Vanston's beautiful wife would have been the talk of the neighborhood. Poor Denzil!