To her artistic, her intellectual, her imaginative sides, Colin appealed. But these were not the whole Phyllys. A more powerful claim rose up and would not be silenced. Her inner self cried out for Giles—Giles with his faults, his temper, his difficulty of expression, his silence—just Giles Randolph as he was. When she could escape, she went to her own room, recognising that Giles was more to her than any other in the world. The discovery brought something of dread lest her love should be unreturned; yet it shed a new radiance on her life. She had not known the strength with which it was in her to love. A pent-up flood had burst its barriers, flowing in a rush throughout her being, and the loosened waters freshened everything they touched, glorifying the world around. All had become beautiful. Colin had poured new meanings into Nature and Art. But Giles had poured new light, new love, into the very springs of her existence. Life was transformed by this new knowledge. Even if he should never return what she felt for him, nothing could rob her of the power of loving. Did he care? She put the question many times. A few days earlier she had believed herself to be more to him than he was to her. But in the light of this realisation, she saw him and herself from a fresh point of view. His reticence made it difficult to gauge what he felt. Yet things might be as she hoped. There was a glow in her eyes that evening which awoke hope in Colin, and aroused Mrs. Wyverne to uneasiness. She came late to Phyllys' room, and found her at the open window, her candle out. The old lady closed the window, sat down, and smoothed the soft hair with unwonted tenderness. "Thee should be in bed, my child," she said, with her occasional reversion to the old-fashioned Quaker speech. "Thee should be asleep." "Very soon, Grannie. The stars are lovely." Mrs. Wyverne spoke abruptly. "Colin Keith is a pleasant youth; but I fear I have acted with imprudence. He and thee are friendly." "Oh, very," assented Phyllys. "I like him so much. He is delightfully artistic." "He is winsome, but, I fear, a man of this world only." "No, indeed, I don't think that. He doesn't talk—men don't, you know. They are so afraid of saying what might be taken for cant, and they hate to make a show of goodness. He 'does' think of—that sort of thing. I am sure he is good; truly good." Mrs. Wyverne shook a decisive head. Her rules were arbitrary, and would not include Colin. "I should fear greatly for thy future, Phyllys, should he and thee desire to marry." Phyllys's colour went up in the darkness. "Oh, not the least chance!" she said. "We are only a sort of cousins. Not that kind of thing at all. He would not wish it, any more than I do." Mrs. Wyverne's uneasiness was deepened, rather than mitigated. Next day, to the astonishment of everybody, Mrs. Keith walked in.