"Oh! I have been asleep," she cried, "wasting our day." "Our day," he said, as if the words hurt him. He pulled her to her feet. Estelle was not beautiful, but in her sweet, clear eyes, in the curve of her mouth, the soft brownness of her skin was something more dangerous than mere beauty. It was soul shining through her grey eyes, the power of love, the possibility of passion. It was intelligence, sympathy. Who wisely said some women make nets and others cages? Esmé, Denise, Dollie, women of their type, could hold their cages out, catch a bird and watch it flutter, but, wearying of him, forget his sugar and his bird-seed, and leave the door open with the careless certainty of finding another capture. But with a net woven about him, a strong net made of such soft stuff that it did not hurt, the captive bird was caught for life, meshed, ensnared for ever. "Come--it is late," Bertie said. As his hands closed on hers, Estelle felt the flush on her cheeks deepen, her hands grow cold. There is a wonder to all in the dawn of love; with some it leaps from the cold night into a sudden glow, not so much dawn as a glorious revealing of the sun. It was so with Estelle; there was no trembling opal in her mental sky, no gradual melting of the mists of twilight. She knew. She loved this man. He was another woman's husband, but she loved him--would love him to her life's end. He must never know, and yet, being intensely human as he helped her up the bank, there was a sick longing that he might care too, even if it meant their instant parting. She fought it back; she was loyal and simple; her love must be her own; her joy and her despair. "Hurry, Estelle; we shall miss the train," he said. "It's very late." They were further away than they thought. The path by the river was rough; they ran panting up to the old house to see the man driving the dog-cart away from the door. "It bain't no use, sir," he said; "she'm near station now, and it's two mile an' more." "There's another?" Bertie said. There was one more, getting them into London at four next morning. Estelle was put out, half frightened. Her aunt would be annoyed. "But she will know it is an accident," she said. "And we can see the sea by moonshine now." They saw it as they drove to the slow train, a wide shimmer of mystery, silver and grey and opal, frostily chill, wondrously limitless; the hoarse whisper of its waves booming through the still night. "Esmé! Will Esmé mind?" Estelle asked as they steamed into London. "She has gone to several balls; she will never know," he said a little bitterly.