That day when they sat by Mrs. Le Roy's couch together, she began herself to realize the change that had come over her son's wife. She missed the roses from the delicate cheeks, the brightness from the eyes, but most of all, the happy smile from the red lips. It even seemed to her that they had a wistful, pathetic droop. "I have been selfish over my daughter," she said, repentantly. "She has broken herself down waiting on me. Beatrix, my darling, can you forgive me for being such a selfish, thoughtless old woman?" "There is nothing to forgive," she answered. "I have not felt any weariness, and I have been only too happy to be with you and to care for you." "You are a dear, unselfish child," cried Mrs. Le Roy, "but I don't intend to be so unreasonable again. You must leave me with the nurses now that I am better, and go out with your husband riding and driving again. I want to see the roses back in your face and the light in your eyes. And, St. Leon, you must write to the Gordons, and ask them to come and make us a visit." "Oh, for Heaven's sake, do not ask them," Laurel cried out with such sudden energy and passion that they were startled. Her face was deathly white with the shock she had received. They looked at her in surprise. "My dear, I do not think you understood my mother," said her husband. "She wishes to invite your parents to visit you. Should you not be pleased to have them come?" She saw that in her terror she had almost betrayed her horrible fear of the Gordons. "I understood," she faltered. "I only meant--meant that it would be better not to ask them just yet, until your mother is better--until she is able to go out some. It would be pleasanter for all, would it not?" They agreed with her that it would be pleasanter for all parties, but they did not want to tax her patience too much. It seemed only natural that she should be longing to see her mother. "I might take you up to New York for a day or two," St. Leon suggested. And again the beautiful face grew ghastly pale with fear and dread. "No, I should not like that," she said, "I would prefer to have them come here. But let us wait a few days before we invite them." She left them and went away to her own private room, locked the door, and threw herself down upon her couch in a perfect passion of dread and despair. The coils of fate were narrowing around her. She could not escape from the web her own hands had woven. A few hours or days at most, and then detection, shame, ignominy, perhaps banishment. The thought quivered like a sword-point in her heart. "Will he forgive me, or will he send me away from him?" she asked herself, fearfully. She sat up and looked with dazed, heavy eyes at the elegance and luxury with which his love had surrounded her--at the diamonds on her hands, at her rich and costly robes--all mute tokens of the adoration in which he held her.