"Oh, Bill," she said, and her voice was thick with tears, "don't say things like that. Don't you see? It was cruel, cruel! She was all alone--no mother, no sister, no lover. She was made so that no one could ever love her. And she wanted love so much--so frightfully much, so that she just _had_ to pretend that she had it." "And what about the Baby?" asked Mr. Despard, taking one arm from his own baby to pass it round his wife's shoulders. "Don't be a darling idiot, Molly. What about the Baby?" "Oh--don't you see?" Mrs. Despard was sobbing now in good earnest. "She wanted the Baby more than anything else. Oh--don't say horrid things about her, Bill! We've got everything--and she'd got nothing at all--don't say things--don't!" Mr. Despard said nothing. He thumped his wife sympathetically on the back. It was the baby who spoke. "Want mammy," she said sleepily, and at the transfer remembered her father, "and daddy too," she added politely. Miss Eden was somewhere or other. Wherever she was she was alone. And these three were together. "I daresay you're right about that girl," said Mr. Despard. "Poor wretch! By Jove, she was ugly!" THE LOVER, THE GIRL, AND THE ONLOOKER The two were alone in the grassy courtyard of the ruined castle. The rest of the picnic party had wandered away from them, or they from it. Out of the green-grown mound of fallen masonry by the corner of the chapel a great may-bush grew, silvered and pearled on every scented, still spray. The sky was deep, clear, strong blue above, and against the blue, the wallflowers shone bravely from the cracks and crevices of ruined arch and wall and buttress. "They shine like gold," she said. "I wish one could get at them!" "Do you want some?" he said, and on the instant his hand had found a strong jutting stone, his foot a firm ledge--and she saw his figure, grey flannel against grey stone, go up the wall towards the yellow flowers. "Oh, don't!" she cried. "I don't _really_ want them--please not--I wish--"