She, having grown almost to womanhood, pure as the flowers of the field, ignorant, a child, knew nothing of what she was doing. She merely gave way to the instinct that was growing within her--the instinct that made her turn to this man, claiming his strength, his tenderness, his capability, as given to him for her use and for her happiness. "You must not avoid me," she said. "Why do you do it? Have I done anything you dislike? I have no one to speak to, no one who understands, but you. There is the padre, of course--and nurse; but they do not understand. They are--so OLD! Let me stay here with you until it is time to go to bed, will you?" "Of course," he answered quietly. "If you care to. To-morrow I should think we shall hear from your uncle. He may come by the boat sailing from Barcelona to-morrow night. It will be a good thing if he does; you see, I must get back to my ship." "You said she would not be ready for sea till next month." "No, but there is discipline to be thought of." He looked past her, up to the stars, with a scrutinising maritime eye, recognising them and naming them to himself. He did not meet her eyes--dangerous, tear-laden. "There is something the matter with you," she said. "You are different. Yes, you want my uncle to come the day after to-morrow--you want to go away to Mahon as soon as you can. I-- Oh, Fitz, I don't want to be a coward!" She stood in front of him, clenching her little fists, forcing back the tears that gleamed in the moonlight. He did not dare to cease his astronomical observations. "I WON'T be a coward--if you will only speak. If you will tell me what it is." Then Fitz told his first deliberate lie. "I have had bad news," he said, "about my brother Luke. I am awfully anxious about him." He did it very well; for his motive was good. And we may take it that such a lie as this is not writ very large in the Book. The girl paused for a little, and then deliberately wiped the tears from her eyes. "How horribly selfish I have been!" she said. "Why did you not tell me sooner? I have only been thinking of my own troubles ever since--ever since poor papa-- I am a selfish wretch! I hate myself! Tell me about your brother." And so they walked slowly up and down the moss-grown terrace--alone in this wonderful tropic night--while he told her the little tragedy of his life. He told the story simply, with characteristic gaps in the sequence, which she was left to fill up from her imagination. "I shall not like Mrs. Harrington," said Eve, when the story was told. "I am glad that she cannot come much into my life. My father wanted me to go and stay with her last summer, but I would not leave him alone, and for some reason he would not accept the invitation for himself. Do you know, Fitz, I sometimes think there is a past--some mysterious past--which contained my father and Mrs. Harrington and a man--the Count de Lloseta."