Some boyish escapade to win words like these from a man of Giles' stamp! The explanation would not hold water. Another lay only too ready. Colin could make the assertion in all honesty; but Phyllys knew that Giles had not talked nonsense, had not alluded to some boyish folly. He had meant every word. He had not intended her to understand; but she did understand. She saw the whole, with daylight clearness. She laid her face on the window-sill, clutching it in her distress. "Giles, you too untrue!" she whispered, and scalding tears fell. Then the thought of her own future; the all but certainty that he would ask her to be his wife. How could she? Marry a man whose life was a lie, whose career had been one long fraud, who for years had connived at that which stabbed the very soul of honour, nay, of common honesty! "If" things were so! But it might be a mistake. His words might bear some different interpretation. Even though her first surmise should prove correct, "he" might have had no hand in it, "he" might be innocent. She resolved that, without ample proof, she would hold him incapable of such conduct. She would wait for further light; but she would not allow him to propose until she knew. She would have to go home. She could not stay here, in hourly intercourse, loving and knowing herself beloved, unable to meet his advances. It would be hard to go, but from every point of view it would be safer. With her early cup of tea was brought a letter from Barbara, the opening sentences of which read like a response to her resolution. Mrs. Wyverne disapproved of Phyllys being at Castle Hill without leave. "If you care to know what I think, I say you ought to come back at once," tartly wrote Barbara. "You ought to consider grandmother's feelings. She looks quite worried, and we shall have her ill, at this rate." The sharp words glanced aside, scarcely heeded. Phyllys welcomed the letter as helping her out of difficulty. At any cost—and the cost would be severe—she felt that she must put off giving Giles a decisive answer. She must allow no chance for a private talk. In view of Barbara's former telegram, she could not feel anxious; but the words would serve as a plea. To her dismay there was a postscript— "After all, you can't come at present. Ben Lane is ill with scarlet fever, and Grannie will not hear of having you. So we must wait." This made a complication. Phyllys went down to breakfast, pale, "distraite," unlike herself. Afterwards she wrote an impulsive note to Mr. Hazel, asking him to bring about her recall. "Don't tell anybody, please," she begged, "only if you could have me telegraphed for, it would be best. They are so kind here; still, just now I ought to get away, and I can't tell you why. Please help me." She ran with the note herself, to catch an early post, and wondered whether she had asked her kind old friend to do a thing impossible.