“Quite true,” Henry admitted. “He had arranged to start for England to-morrow, and to leave you and Lady Montbarry and the children to enjoy your holiday in Venice, under my care. Circumstances have occurred, however, which have forced him to alter his plans. He must take you all back with him to-morrow because I am not able to assume the charge of you. I am obliged to give up my holiday in Italy, and return to England too.” Agnes looked at him in some little perplexity: she was not quite sure whether she understood him or not. “Are you really obliged to go back?” she asked. Henry smiled as he answered her. “Keep the secret,” he said, “or Montbarry will never forgive me!” She read the rest in his face. “Oh!” she exclaimed, blushing brightly, “you have not given up your pleasant holiday in Italy on my account?” “I shall go back with you to England, Agnes. That will be holiday enough for _me_.” She took his hand in an irrepressible outburst of gratitude. “How good you are to me!” she murmured tenderly. “What should I have done in the troubles that have come to me, without your sympathy? I can’t tell you, Henry, how I feel your kindness.” She tried impulsively to lift his hand to her lips. He gently stopped her. “Agnes,” he said, “are you beginning to understand how truly I love you?” That simple question found its own way to her heart. She owned the whole truth, without saying a word. She looked at him—and then looked away again. He drew her nearer to him. “My own darling!” he whispered—and kissed her. Softly and tremulously, the sweet lips lingered, and touched his lips in return. Then her head drooped. She put her arms round his neck, and hid her face on his bosom. They spoke no more. The charmed silence had lasted but a little while, when it was mercilessly broken by a knock at the door. Agnes started to her feet. She placed herself at the piano; the instrument being opposite to the door, it was impossible, when she seated herself on the music-stool, for any person entering the room to see her face. Henry called out irritably, “Come in.” The door was not opened. The person on the other side of it asked a strange question. “Is Mr. Henry Westwick alone?” Agnes instantly recognised the voice of the Countess. She hurried to a second door, which communicated with one of the bedrooms. “Don’t let her come near me!” she whispered nervously. “Good night, Henry! good night!” If Henry could, by an effort of will, have transported the Countess to the uttermost ends of the earth, he would have made the effort without remorse. As it was, he only repeated, more irritably than ever, “Come in!”