There was some tone of tenderness in his voice when he said the word "Sweetheart" and Amaryllis started and drew in her breath. It recalled something which had given her joy, a low murmur whispered in the night. "Sweetheart!"--a word which John, alas! had never used before nor since, except in that one letter in answer to her cry of exaltation--her glad Magnificat. What was this echo sounding in her ears? How like Denzil's voice was to John's--only a little deeper. Why, why should he have used that word "Sweetheart"? No coherent thought had yet come to her, it was as though she had looked for an instant upon some scene which awakened a chord of memory, and then that the curtain had dropped before she could define it. She grew agitated, and Denzil turning, saw that her face was pale, and her grey eyes vague and troubled. "I am quite sure that it is tiring you, showing me all the house like this, we won't look at another picture--and really I must be getting on." She did not contradict him. "I am afraid that you ought to go perhaps, if you want to arrive by daylight." And as they returned to the green drawing-room she said some nice things about wanting to meet his mother, and she tried to be natural and at ease, but her hand was cold as ice when he held it in saying good-bye before the fire, when Filson had announced the motor. And if his eyes had shown passionate emotion in the picture gallery, hers now filled with question and distress. "Good-bye, Denzil--" "Good-bye, Amaryllis--" He could not bring himself to say the usual conventionalities, and went towards the door with nothing more. Her brain was clearing, terror and passion and uncertainty had come in like a flood. "Denzil--?" He turned to her side fearfully. Why had she called him now? "Denzil--?" her face had paled still further, and there was an anguish of pleading in it. "Oh, please, what does it all mean?" and she fell forward into his arms. He held her breathlessly. Had she fainted? No--she still stood on her feet, but her little face there lying on his breast was as a lily in whiteness and tears escaped from her closed eyes. "For God's sake, Denzil, have you not something to tell me? You cannot leave me so!" He shivered with the misery of things. "I have nothing to tell you, child." His voice was hoarse. "You are overwrought and overstrung. I have nothing to say to you but just good-bye." She held his coat and looked up at him wildly. "--Denzil--It was you--not--John!" He unclasped her clinging arms: "I must go." "You shall not until you answer me--I have a right to know." "I tell you I have nothing to say to you," he was stern with the suffering of restraint. She clung to him again. "Why did you say that word 'Sweetheart' then? It was your own word. Oh! Denzil, you cannot be so frightfully cruel as to leave me in uncertainty--tell me the truth or I shall die!"