He has gone away, Lady Vera tells herself; yet she, in some vague way, feels that he has not. She hears a step in the hall outside her door sometimes--a manly step that is not Sir Harry Clive's, but which has a firm, remembered ring in it that has power to send the warm blood flying from her heart to her face. When she is well enough to sit up in her white dressing-gown, lying back in a great, cushioned arm-chair, the children are admitted to see her. They spend a noisy five minutes with their friend, then the nurse bundles them out, closing the door on their clamorous tongues, but not so quickly but that Countess Vera catches Mark's disgusted dictum in the hall: "Oh, Uncle Phil! Vera isn't a bit pretty any more. Her face is all white and thin, and her eyes are _so_ big." So he is here. Her subtle intuitions had been right. Impulsively she turns to the prim old nurse. "Open that door, and ask Captain Lockhart to come in here." He comes, eager, smiling, filled with wonder, yet outwardly calm. "You are very kind; you permit me to share the children's treat," he says. "May I----" then he pauses, confused. "Look at me? yes, do," she says, crimsoning painfully. "I want you to tell me--is it true what Mark said--that I am not pretty any more?" The blue eyes meet hers with the old, strange look that always made her heart beat against her will. "Mark is a little dunce," he answers, smiling. "He has no eye for anything but roses. I assure you, Lady Vera, that you are as beautiful in your pallor and delicacy as you were in health. More beautiful to me," he adds, his voice falling slightly lower "because now you are kind." "Kind!" She arches her dark brows slightly in surprise. "Yes," he answers. "Did you not know how I have been longing for a sight of your face, Lady Vera? But I dared not ask, and now you allow me to see you of your own free will. You cannot guess how much I thank you." His voice trembles with feeling. The countess, blushing in spite of herself, tries to make light of it all. "I did not think of _les proprietes_ when I called you in here," she stammers. "My vanity was so alarmed by Mark's terrible speech that I forgot everything. I think you must go now." But he lingers. "Won't you come down into the library?" persuasively. "We could all amuse you there. You could lie on the sofa with a warm shawl over you, and we would read aloud to you, or sing, or play--whatever pleased you most. It must be dull for you here with your sick fancies. Will you come?" What an atmosphere of cheerfulness he has brought into the sick-room. Lady Vera's heart that has lain numb and chill, and hopeless in her breast so long, seems to warm itself to life again in the sunlight of his smile. "I will go, if Lady Clive thinks it prudent," she declares.