“If you feel, as you say,” Lord Valleys began once more, “that the bottom has been knocked out of things for you by this—this affair, don't, for goodness' sake, do anything in a hurry. Wait! Go abroad! Get your balance back! You'll find the thing settle itself in a few months. Don't precipitate matters; you can make your health an excuse to miss the Autumn session.” Lady Valleys chimed in eagerly “You really are seeing the thing out of all proportion. What is a love-affair. My dear boy, do you suppose for a moment anyone would think the worse of you, even if they knew? And really not a soul need know.” “It has not occurred to me to consider what they would think.” “Then,” cried Lady Valleys, nettled, “it's simply your own pride.” “You have said.” Lord Valleys, who had turned away, spoke in an almost tragic voice “I did not think that on a point of honour I should differ from my son.” Catching at the word honour, Lady Valleys cried suddenly: “Eustace, promise me, before you do anything, to consult your Uncle Dennis.” Miltoun smiled. “This becomes comic,” he said. At that word, which indeed seemed to them quite wanton, Lord and Lady Valleys turned on their son, and the three stood staring, perfectly silent. A little noise from the doorway interrupted them. CHAPTER XVIII Left by her father and mother to the further entertainment of Harbinger, Barbara had said: “Let's have coffee in here,” and passed into the withdrawing room. Except for that one evening, when together by the sea wall they stood contemplating the populace, she had not been alone with him since he kissed her under the shelter of the box hedge. And now, after the first moment, she looked at him calmly, though in her breast there was a fluttering, as if an imprisoned bird were struggling ever so feebly against that soft and solid cage. Her last jangled talk with Courtier had left an ache in her heart. Besides, did she not know all that Harbinger could give her? Like a nymph pursued by a faun who held dominion over the groves, she, fugitive, kept looking back. There was nothing in that fair wood of his with which she was not familiar, no thicket she had not travelled, no stream she had not crossed, no kiss she could not return. His was a discovered land, in which, as of right, she would reign. She had nothing to hope from him but power, and solid pleasure. Her eyes said: How am I to know whether I shall not want more than you; feel suffocated in your arms; be surfeited by all that you will bring me? Have I not already got all that? She knew, from his downcast gloomy face, how cruel she seemed, and was sorry. She wanted to be good to him, and said almost shyly: “Are you angry with me, Claud?” Harbinger looked up. “What makes you so cruel?” “I am not cruel.” “You are. Where is your heart?” “Here!” said Barbara, touching her breast. “Ah!” muttered Harbinger; “I'm not joking.” She said gently:' “Is it as bad as that, my dear?”