Standing there beside her in the sunset, her weight resting deliciously on him as she raised her injured foot from the ground, he realised the change that had come to Tony. Her manner was as entirely different from her manner of six months ago at Shovelstrode as that had been different from the manner of those still earlier days at Lingfield or Brambletye. In those days, during their playtime, Tony had been a school-girl, a delightful hoyden, the best pal and fellow-adventurer a man could have. In December, in the garden at Shovelstrode, she had lost that valiant girlhood, and at the same time her womanhood was unripe--she had been a crude mixture of girl and woman, sometimes provokingly both, sometimes repellingly neither. But to-day she was woman complete. Both her mind and her body seemed to have stepped out of their green adolescence. There was a certain dignity of curve about the tall figure resting against him, which Nigel had not seen in the forest or in the garden; there was a clear and confident look in the eyes which in earlier days had been either wistful or timid; there was a heightened colour on the cheeks. Her manner was full of gentle assurance, her speech easy and sympathetic--as utterly different from the crude tactlessness of Christmastide as from the school-girl rattle of November. Yes, Tony was a woman come into her kingdom, proud, sweet, compassionate and strong. Quentin Lowe had made her this in the short weeks of his love. Unworthy little cad as he was, he had yet been able to raise her from girlhood to womanhood, to crown her with the diadem of her heritage.... "Tony," cried Nigel, caught in a sudden storm of impulse, "do you love Quentin Lowe?" "Love him!--why, of course.... Let's move on." "You're not angry with me?--I have my reason for asking." "No, I'm not angry. But what reason can you have?" "I remember," said Nigel desperately, "what you told me six months ago. You said you couldn't forgive...." The colour rushed to his face, but he fought on. "There is something which I think you ought to know about him." "What do you mean?" She spoke sharply, but not quite so sharply as he had expected. "Miss Strife--it's very difficult for me ... but I think I ought----" "I suppose," she said, her voice faltering a little, "you're trying to tell me--you think you ought to tell me--that Quentin hasn't always been quite--quite worthy of himself. I know." "You know!" "Yes." There was silence, broken only by the swish of their footsteps through the grass. "How did you know?--Who told you?" cried Furlonger suddenly. "I might ask--how do _you_ know?" "The girl--was a friend of mine...." "Oh, I'm sorry." "Don't mistake me. I--I didn't love her--not in that way, I mean. But, Tony--who told you?" "Quentin." "My God!" "Why are you so surprised? It was right that he should tell me." "Of course. But I--I didn't think he would."