Then at last, five weeks after Sonia's flight, I called at Pont Street and demanded of Ella the reason she had visited the house in Pembroke Road. Her reply was quite unexpected. She told me quite calmly that they had been schoolfellows at Neuilly, and that, finding Sonia had lost both her parents, she went to Pembroke Road each day to bear the bereaved girl company. She was in ignorance regarding Sonia's life since she had left the French school, and expressed surprise that she should have departed suddenly without telling her of her destination. Her replies to my inquiries set my mind at rest upon several points. It appeared quite plain that Ella herself had told Sonia of her engagement to me and had described the tragic incident at Staines, therefore the pretty refugee had been enabled to drop those ingenious hints at mystery that had so sorely puzzled me, and had cleverly secured my interests on her behalf. When I realised how artfully I had been tricked, I ground my teeth, and Ella, standing statuesque on the opposite side of the drawing-room in strong relief against a background of dark, glossy palms and broad-leaved tropical plants, noticed my anger. The light fell upon her red-brown hair and upon her slightly upturned face, showing its delicate modelling in its almost childish roundness. Her profile was quite as charming as her full face, perhaps more so, as it had the advantage of the curl and sweep of the eyelashes and of the fine line of the upper lip. She eyed me gravely, but spoke no word. Yet in that instant I knew I had misjudged her, that through those long, anxious weeks while I had entertained dark suspicions she had nevertheless still loved me honestly and truly. I know not what words I uttered, but a few moments later I found her sobbing in my fond embrace. Her tears were tears of joy. The silence was long. We had so much to think about that we forgot to speak, but presently, when she dried her blue eyes with her flimsy lace handkerchief and seated herself, I took the tiny hand lying idly in her lap and laid my cheek down on the tender, rosy palm. "How I wish that this night could last for ever," I said, with a sigh of supreme contentment. "In my memory it will live always." "Always?" she echoed, looking tenderly into my face; then for the first time she put her arms around me and held me tightly pressed against her heart. "Yes, always," I said. "Until I die." "Ah! Don't speak of death," she whispered. "If you died, I--I should die also, Geoffrey. I could not live without you. How I have endured these dark, weary weeks I scarcely know." Together we remained a long time, while I reproached myself for entertaining suspicion that her friendliness with Dudley or with Beck was anything but platonic, declaring that my love had ever been unwavering, that my recent actions had been due to a mad and unjust jealousy for which I craved her forgiveness.