“You see,” he went on, unheeding, letting her hands go, and standing at some distance from her, “I was half-dreaming--weakness, I dare say, proceeding from the ridiculous semi-invalid position I’ve been in during the last eighteen hours. Suddenly, on opening my eyes, I saw a face, a very lovely woman’s face, close to me. It seemed a part of my dreams; I did not stop to consider who she was, and I kissed her.” “You thought it was some one else, then?” “I did not say so. But will you forgive me?” “I forgive you. I understand; I was only a part of your dream. Please tell me again what you were saying just now. I could not quite grasp it. What is your real name?” “Hilary Pritchard. Here,” he continued, fumbling with one hand in his pocket, “here are cards, letters, and papers, to prove it. No one who knows the Northborough family could suppose that I belong to it. But Lord Carthew was my college chum, and I like him as well almost as one man can like another. I am all the more sorry because I have annoyed a lady whom I know he very greatly admires.” “So it is Lord Carthew I have been talking to all last evening and this morning,” Stella observed, reflectively. “That explains a great deal.” She broke off abruptly. What she really meant was that it explained the fact of her father’s acquiescence to the proposed marriage between herself and his younger guest; and also to the latter’s way of talking as though he were wealthy and heir to a title, as well as other points which had puzzled her. The door of the sitting-room in which they stood was wide open, and Dakin, the housemaid, passed along the corridor, apparently without paying any particular attention to Stella and Hilary; but Stella disliked and distrusted the woman, and moved toward the door as Dakin made a great pretence of going down the staircase to the ground-floor. “I will say good-by now, Miss Cranstoun,” said Hilary, in a constrained voice. “I shall be leaving the house almost immediately. May I leave it to you to make my apologies to Lady Cranstoun?” “But you will stay to luncheon, surely?” Stella suggested. “It will seem so strange if you go like this. And besides, you are not nearly strong enough to be moved yet. You can hardly walk, and last night you were delirious, I know.” “How do you know?” She blushed deeply. “I charm away mamma’s headaches,” she answered, in confusion. “I believe I have some kind of magnetism in my touch. So I asked Margaret to let me soothe you.” “It was you, then. I woke out of a horrid nightmare, and felt your touch, and heard your voice.” His tones vibrated with deep feeling, which he was trying vainly to suppress. Stella, on her part, was torn between a desire to escape and a longing to remain near him. The first luncheon-gong rang out in the interval of silence. Stella held out her hand to him. “Won’t you stay?” she asked. “I cannot.”