"Eve! from this moment you and I are one. What belongs to one, belongs to the other; we can have no secrets, no concealments. If there are difficulties in our way, I must be prepared to meet them. Who is this woman? What right has she or anyone else to dictate what you should or should not do?" Her eyes gazed back into his with a deep, unseeing gaze, the delicate eyebrows creased as if in an effort of thought; then once again she lifted her hand and pressed it against her brow. Poignantly beautiful, poignantly sad, she sat and gave him her answer. "I live with them," she said quietly. "They take care of me. I think-- I think I am mad!" Rupert Dempster lost no time in questioning his hostess as to the history of the Dream Woman who had come to fill such a real place in his life. As soon as the guests had departed he put in a plea for a private conversation, whereupon Mrs Melhuish seated herself on a chair at the farther side of the lawn, and drew a long breath of mingled fatigue, and relief. "That's over, thank goodness! This annual garden-party to the neighbourhood looms over me like a nightmare. I feel ten years younger when the last carriage has driven away from the door. Now! what can I do for you? But I know, of course. You've fallen a victim to Eve Bisdee and her _beaux yeux_. They _are_ beautiful! It's about once in a lifetime that one meets an Englishwoman with such eyes as hers. It seems superfluous to have a tongue, when all that one feels can be expressed so eloquently in a glance. Even now her eyes are wonderful; but if you'd seen her as a girl, before--" "Before what? That's what I am waiting to hear. What happened to her? Some tragedy, of course. Tell me about it." Mrs Melhuish gave him a searching glance. "You realised that--that she is not--like other people?" Rupert's smile was half sad, half triumphant. "Not in the least like other people. But we can discuss that later on. I am waiting for your story." Mrs Melhuish leaned her head on her hand and her face fell into thoughtful lines.