For some reason he seemed unable to look at her. Vaguely he knew he had dealt her a blow, and that it was of a nature he could not soften. Hal stared hard at the fire, then suddenly started to her feet. “You can’t mean it,” she exclaimed, forgetting to be circumspect. “You couldn’t possibly think seriously of marrying Doris Hayward?” Instantly he stiffened. “I don’t know why you speak of it in that way. Certainly I am serious. It is hardly a question I should joke about.” There was a tense silence, then Hal turned to the sofa and picked up her hat as if she were a little dazed. She seemed suddenly to have nothing to say, and she knew herself to be no good at prevarication. To congratulate him seemed an impossibility just yet. “Of course I know you have never cared for Doris,” he said; “but probably you did not know her well enough. I hope you will soon see you have misjudged her.” “I hope so,” she said lamely. “Good-night—I—I—hadn’t thought about your getting married. I must get used to the idea. I—” she paused in sudden, swift distress. “Good-night; of course I hope you’ll be happy, and all that,” and she went hurriedly out, and up to her own room. CHAPTER XXI When Hal reached her room she sat down on the bed in the dark, and stared at the dim square of the window. She was feeling stunned, and as if her brain would not work properly. It grasped the significance of old, familiar objects as usual, but seemed quite unable to grip and understand the something strange and new which had suddenly come into being. She remembered she had waited for Dudley to come with soothing for a perturbed frame of mind, and instead, he had brought her—_this_. What could it mean? Surely, surely, not that Doris Hayward was to rob her of her brother. A wave of swift and sudden loneliness seemed to envelop her. The blackness of the night closed in upon her, and desolation swept across her soul. “If only it had been Ethel,” was the vague, uncertain thought: “any one in the world almost but Doris.” And again, “Why had Dudley been so incredibly blind to Doris’s real nature? Why had he of all men been caught by a pretty face? Was it possible he thought his life would need no other help and comfort but that of a charming exterior in his wife?” How childlike he seemed again to his young sister’s practical, worldly knowledge. Of course he knew almost nothing of women, buried in his musty old architectural lore, and giving most of his brain to the contemplation of ancient ruins and edifices. He had looked up from his books, and Doris had smiled at him, that diabolically winsome, innocent smile of hers; and something in his heart, not quite smothered and likewise not healthily developed, had warmed into sudden, surprised pleasure, and straightway he thought himself in love. Hal was sure of one thing, that if Doris had not decided it would suit her plans to be Dudley’s wife, the idea would not have occured to him.