"Sad!" he echoes, wearily. "If you only knew _how_ sad. But you are right; I ought not to speak of that. How strange it seems to meet you here; almost makes one believe in Fate! To think that I rose this morning and rode off haphazard, not even guessing you were within a hundred miles of me, and now, at evening, I am sitting by your side!" "How is it you have forsaken the London season?" "It I told you the _real_ truth you would be angry, and I cannot utter conventional lies to you, Lorry." She trembles a little. Her eyes go out to the shining river that mirrors the silver glory of the starlight. At her heart a dull pain beats. "Your friends, the Americans, where are they?" she asks evasively. "In Paris, I believe. At least, they may have left now; but they were there up to May. Nan is mad about Paris." "Nan," be it remarked, is what he always calls Miss Anastasia Jefferson. Lauraine knows this, and smiles a little. "You and she are as great friends as ever, I suppose?" she remarks. "She is a jolly little girl," Keith answers, carelessly. "Yes, I suppose we are friends in a way. We are always quarrelling, and yet always making it up." "Why don't you--marry--her?" asks Lauraine. He stares at her as if uncertain of what he has heard. "Marry Nan! Good Lord! I never dreamt of such a thing!" "Other people have," continues Lauraine; "even the girl herself, I fancy." He laughs a little bitterly. "What fad have you got into your head? Nan looks upon me as a sort of elder brother. There has never been anything of 'that sort' between us. As for marrying, well, _you_ ought to know I am not likely to do that." "I think you ought to marry," says Lauraine, very quietly. "You see you have wealth and position, and yet you lead such a 'homeless' kind of life. That is the only word that expresses it. And some day surely you will think of settling down; you cannot be always like this." "_You_ counsel me to marry," he says, with bitterness. "Have you found the experience so pleasant a one?" The crimson colour rushes all over the proud fair face. "That has nothing to do with it," she says, coldly. "Has it not? Well, if I choose to be faithful to a memory, that is my look out. I am not one to forget easily, as I have told you before." "And you don't care for Miss Jefferson?" asks Lauraine, unwisely. He looks at her in silence for a moment, and under the strong magnetism of his glance, her eyes turn from the scene without and meet his own. "I think _you_ should know," he says, very softly. There comes the sound of a rustling skirt, a closing door. Lady Etwynde has left the inner room; they are alone. In an instant he is kneeling by the low chair on which she sits. Her hands are clasped in his. "Oh, Lorry, Lorry!" he cries; "it is so hard!" The passionate plaint thrills to her very heart. She lays her hands on either shoulder, and looks down into the pain-filled depths of the blue eyes.