The sense of command was delicious, as it generally is. And yet! When a vision arose of the studio, and of Colin's delicate absorbed face, with penetrative eyes searching her soul, she knew she would rather be there than here, even though she had no such sense of control over him, and could no more twist him round her finger than she could turn aside the winds of heaven in their paths. Not that she preferred Colin to Giles. Giles was her friend. Colin had not even sought her friendship. But to some natures there is an even greater charm in the sense of being controlled by the personality of another, than in having control over another. And Colin attracted her. She wanted to watch him again at his work, to study his curiously dual nature, to learn from his murmured suggestions, to grasp his ideals, to breathe the mental and spiritual atmosphere which he breathed. Giles awoke in her no such cravings. She was not sure that he would understand what they meant. Phyllys pulled herself up. This was heterodox. She remembered all that Giles had done; not only saving her life at risk to his own, which probably any man passing would have tried to do; but in cousinly kindness, day after day. She was forgetting anew to talk to him. Pretty apologetic eyes went in his direction. "I am afraid you are tired," he said. "I! I'm never tired!" she declared. "We are there now, and you will be able to rest," he said, with a smile of melancholy. He had promised "something pretty," and he kept his word. The spot to which he led her was beside a river, broad and swift; not chestnut-hued or broken by stones with swirls of white foam and gleams of golden light; yet a most fair scene, after a more ordinary type. An arched stone bridge spanned the stream; cows clustered under its shadow; and on the other side flags grew in abundance. On their own side of the water, which faithfully reflected the tint of heaven, a clump of willows sparkled in sunshine. This was what Giles had pictured beforehand; and Phyllys exclaimed in admiration. He found her a seat, and she sank into silence, forgetting to talk, her cheek supported on one ungloved hand, her lashes dropped till they half-veiled her eyes. It was the attitude which had inspired Colin's artistic sense. It inspired another sense in Giles. He could not turn his gaze from her. Not that he was seeking, like Colin, to penetrate her soul. He was only enchained, taken captive, at her mercy. He was not analysing his own feelings. He was not good at self-analysing, and words never flowed with him, even in the secret chambers of his mind. But without words, without verbal definition, he realised to the tips of his fingers that to have Phyllys thus was happiness; that to have her always would be heaven. And then with a throb of pain, he realised that not to have her, never to possess her, would be— He dared not face that possibility. It was enough to unman him. Cold drops broke out.