“Oh, my dear, that isn’t the end of it. He is all for taking it back now; for renewing the old romance. He has a thousand reasons for his defection, the chief being--and it was really true--that he couldn’t afford to marry and was pushed to the wall by some debts that he had contrived to make. But, Hildegarde, the real fact is not the revival of his love for me--very warm it is now, if he is to be believed--but--you would never realize it, you are such an unworldly, uncalculating little kitten--but, I have at my disposal a great fortune, with nobody to say me nay. I am one of the largest taxpayers in the county, and that does make a man’s heart so tender to his old love; the girl who adored him, who told him all her little, foolish heart, and let him kiss her good-by, always, and lied to her grandmother, and told the unsuspecting old lady she never did. Oh, why are women’s memories weighted to bursting with trifles! Now, Hildegarde, haven’t you noticed how much Ran Ducie has been in town all last fall and this spring?” Hildegarde had, indeed, noticed it. She nodded assent. She was beyond speech. “That’s his errand, my dear, making up for lost time. Here we are at your home. Thank you so much for giving me the chance to go. I’ll make it lovely for you. The yacht casts off at five to-morrow afternoon, and the limousine will call for you at four.” CHAPTER XXVIII Hildegarde passed a wakeful night of troubled thought. Only after the tardy dawn of the early spring was in the room did she fall into the dull slumber of exhaustion, from which she roused at last, unrefreshed and languid. Before she broke her fast she dispatched a note to Mrs. Floyd-Rosney, declining on second thoughts the invitation to make the trip to New Orleans and St. Simon’s Island, which she had welcomed so enthusiastically when it was broached the previous day. She gave no reason for her change of mind, but expressed her thanks very prettily and courteously; the conventional, suave phrases exacted by decorum incongruous with the pale, stern, set face that bent above them. Her mother cried out in surprise and solicitude when she came into the library, with this mask, so to speak, alien to the joyous countenance she was wont to wear, so soft and glowing, so bland and gay, but she petulantly put aside all inquiries, declaring that she was quite well and only wanted to be left alone. To be quit of the family she escaped into the solitary sun-parlor, and sat there in a wicker chair among the palms, and watched the blooms in the window-boxes that illumined the space with their vivid glintings. For there was no sun to-day--a hazy, soft, gray day, and but for the gleam of her white dress in the leafy shadows Randal Ducie might not have seen her there when he was ushered into the library; after somewhat perfunctory greetings to her father and mother he strode, with the freedom of an acknowledged friend of the family, through the room into the sun-parlor and sat down beside her.