_Ann!_ Cara was conscious of an overwhelming rush of self-reproach. Ann miserable--and alone. And she had been keeping Robin here with her--or, at least, had let him stay. Should she warn him? Prepare him? She hesitated. But her hesitation was only momentary. Whatever had occurred betwixt Ann and the man who loved her, it was Ann's secret, and she alone had the right to decide whether Robin should be admitted into it or not. But he must go home--now, at once! "Why, yes," she said urgently. "You must hurry back, Robin. Ann may be--feeling lonely." Half an hour later Robin strode into the living-room at the Cottage to find Ann sitting by the window, curiously still, and staring out impassively into the dusk with blank, unseeing eyes. At sight of her--white and motionless as a statue--a queer sense of foreboding woke in him, and he stepped quickly to her side. "Ann!" he exclaimed. "Ann, what is it?" She remained quite still, as if she did not hear him. He touched her shoulder. "What is it, Ann?" he repeated urgently. At the touch of his hand she glanced stupidly towards him. Then, shivering a little as though suddenly cold, she got up stiffly out of her chair. But still she did not speak. Robin slipped his arm round her. "Ann--dear old thing, tell me. What's happened?" he entreated. At last she answered him. "Nothing much," she said. "Oh, nothing at all, really." She gave a funny little cracked laugh. "Only--I'm not--engaged any longer.... I told you I was 'fey' last night." Almost before she had finished speaking, he felt her slight young body suddenly become a dead weight on his arm. She crumpled up against him, and sank into the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness. * * * * * The following morning two rather strained young faces confronted each other across the Cottage breakfast table. After Ann had recovered consciousness the previous evening, she had confided to Robin something of what had taken place during the interview between herself and Eliot. He had vainly tried to dissuade her, urging that she was too tired to talk and had much better go to bed and rest. "I'd rather tell you now--to-night," she had insisted. "Then we need never speak of it again. And there's very little to tell. Eliot has broken off his engagement with me because he thinks I've deceived him." Robin's anger had been deep but inarticulate. When he spoke again it was reassuringly, soothingly. All else he had kept back. "_You_ deceive him--or any one! If he thinks that, then he doesn't know you at all, little sister. And what's more, if he can think that of you, he isn't good enough for you." "The trouble is"--with a pale little smile--"that he thinks I'm not--good enough--for him." She would give no reply to Robin's impetuous demand for an explanation. "No, dear old boy, don't ask me," she had said painfully. "It--it doesn't bear talking about. He just doesn't think me good enough. That's all."