"Naturally," was the calm reply. "If it was an indiscretion on your part, it was a blessed one for me. I was able to renew my acquaintance with Miss Leigh, which had been of the briefest, in the favorable circumstances of a five-hundred-mile _tête-à-tête_; and now we understand each other perfectly." As he spoke Nadia and Rona turned to them. "Look at him," said Nadia, prettily. "He is quite convalescent, don't you think? Miss Forester and I have done our poor little best for him." "He will be all right now," said Rona, extending her hand with a smile that certainly was unmixed with any resentment, "now that he knows that Felix is safe and well and--and happy--won't you, Denzil?" He could not speak. He wrung her hand and turned away, crimson. Miss Forester was a little surprised, but Nadia thought tenderly of the Englishman's proverbial taciturnity under pressure of emotion. These people were heroes and heroines of romance to her. She flung her arm caressingly about Rona's shoulders and led her from the room. Miss Forester followed, and the three men were left in a gulf of silence. * * * * * * * It was as though Felix, like some champion of old entering an enchanted castle, had cut with his sword clean through the many-hued curtain which shut out the world. The moment his eye and that of his brother met scales fell from Denzil's sight--the spell was broken: he emerged, as it were, once more into a life in which men were responsible for their actions, and wherein gentlemen did not break faith, however strong the temptation. What was this magic which had held him chained? Was it love, or sorcery? He had never asked himself. He only knew that it was too strong for him. It had blinded him to constancy, to honor, to his plighted word. He stood aghast at the power of it. It is one thing to feel; it is quite another to be carried away by the strength of one's feelings. He still thrilled with the memory of the scene in the twilight garden; and yet underlying his joy there was a profound misgiving. The passion which possessed him was real enough; but he was no boy, and even as he felt it he knew it could not last. What was worse, he knew that he did not even wish it to last. He was a steady-going prosaic person, and he foresaw that he could not dwell continuously upon the heights to which his infatuation had drawn him. His present ecstasy was not real life. It was illusion. The moment he saw Felix he realized this. What was he to say? And then, in the midst of his confusion, light leapt to his mind. He had broken plight; but then, so had Rona! The notion went far to restore his self-respect to him. "Well," he said, hurriedly, addressing Felix, who stood regarding him critically, "so Rona changed her mind upon the journey here?" "As you did upon your arrival," was the instant retort. Denzil looked crestfallen.