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And at that her heart smote her, for he had been kinder that evening than ever before. The fragrance of the lilies at her breast reminded her how kind.

She bent her head to them, and suddenly, as though the flowers exhaled some potent charm, impulse–blind, domineering impulse–took possession of her.

She turned swiftly to the door, and in a moment her feet were bearing her, almost without her voluntary effort, back to the room she had left.

The door was unlatched. She pushed it open, entering impetuously. And she came upon Caryl suddenly–as he had come upon her that afternoon–sunk in a chair by the window, with his head in his hands.

He rose instantly at her entrance, rose and closed the window; then lowered the blind very quietly, very slowly, and finally turned round to her.

“What is it? You have forgotten something?”

Except that he was paler than usual, his face bore no trace of emotion. He looked at her with his heavy eyes gravely, with unfailing patience.

For an instant she stood irresolute, afraid; then again that urging impulse drove her forward. She moved close to him.

“I only came back to say–I only wanted to tell you–Vivian, I–I was horrid to you this afternoon. Forgive me!”

She stretched out her trembling hands to him, and he took them, held them fast, then sharply let them go.

“My dear,” he said, “you were in trouble, and I intruded upon you. It was no case for forgiveness.”

But she would not accept his indulgence.

“I was horrid,” she protested, with a catch in her voice. “Why are you so patient with me? You never used to be.”

He did not answer her. He seemed to regard the question as superfluous.

She drew a little nearer. Her fingers fastened quivering upon his coat.

“Don’t be too kind to me, Vivian,” she said, her voice trembling. “It–it isn’t good for me.”

He took her by the wrists and drew her hands away.

“You want to tell me something,” he said. “What is it?”

She glanced upwards, meeting his look with sudden resolution.

“You asked me this afternoon why I was crying,” she said. “And I–I lied to you. You asked me, too, what Mrs. Lockyard said to me. And I lied again. I will tell you now, if–if you will listen to me.”

Caryl was still holding her wrists. There was a hint of sternness in his attitude.

“Well?” he said quietly. “What did she say?”

“She said”–Doris spoke with an effort–“she said, or rather she hinted, that there was an old grudge between you and Major Brandon, a matter with which I was in no way concerned, an affair of many years’ standing. She said that was why you followed him up and–thrashed him that night. She implied that I didn’t count at all. She made me wonder if–if–“–she was speaking almost inarticulately, with bent head–“if perhaps it was only to satisfy this ancient grudge that you married me.”

Her words went into silence. She could not look him in the face. If he had not held her wrists so firmly she would have been tempted to turn and flee. As it was, she could only stand before him in quivering suspense.

He moved at length, moved suddenly and disconcertingly, freeing one hand to turn her face quietly upwards. She did not resist him, but she shrank as she met his eyes. She fancied she had never seen him look so grim.

“And that was why you were crying?” he asked, deliberately searching her reluctant eyes.

“That was–one reason,” she acknowledged faintly.

“Then there was something more than that?”

“Yes.” She laid her hand pleadingly on his arm, and he released her. “I will tell you,” she said tremulously, keeping her face upturned to his. “At least, I will try. But it’s very difficult because–“

She began to falter under his look.

“Because,” he said slowly, “you have no confidence in me. That I can well understand. You married me more or less under compulsion, and when a wife is no more than a guest in her husband’s house, confidence between them, of any description, is almost an impossibility.”