"And, if you think fit to change your mind, you may do so too. Nobody wants either of you to marry where you do not love; the worst thing in the world!"

"When is this prohibition to be removed?" asked Hubert. "It seems to me a little hard upon--upon us both."

"If Enid is stronger, I will allow her to be engaged in a year's time,"

said the General, "but not before; and I shall tell her so."

The first time that Hubert found himself alone with Enid he said--

"The General seems to have changed his mind about our engagement, Enid."

"Yes; he told me so," she answered meekly.

"He says we are not to consider ourselves engaged."

"Yes."

"I am very sorry that he should take that view----"

"Don't be sorry, please!" she said, quickly interrupting him. "I think that it is better so."

"Better, Enid?"

"Yes. He says that I am not strong--and it is true. I feel very weak sometimes, not strong enough to bear much, I am afraid. If I were to become an invalid, I should not marry." She spoke gently, but with great resolution.

"That is all a morbid fancy of yours," said Hubert. "You will be better soon. After this summer, the General talks of winter in the Riviera.

That will do you all the good in the world."

"I think not," she answered quietly. "I am afraid that I am not so likely to recover as you think. And, if not, nothing on earth will induce me to marry any man. Remember that, Hubert--if I am not better, I will not marry you. I intend to join the sisters at East Winstead."

"It is that meddling parson who is at the bottom of this, I'll swear!"

said Hubert angrily, quitting her side and pacing about the room. He noticed that at his words the color rose in the girl's pale cheeks.

"If you mean Mr. Evandale," she said, "I can assure you that he has never said a word to me about East Winstead. It is entirely my own wish."

"My dear child," said Hubert, halting in front of her, "the last thing we want is to force your wishes in any direction. If, for instance, you wish to throw me over and be a nun, do so by all means. I only ask you to be true to yourself, and to see that you do not act on impulse, or so as to blight the higher impulses of your nature. I can say no more."

Enid looked at him wistfully, and seemed inclined to speak; but the entrance of her uncle at that moment put a stop to further conversation, and the subject was not reopened before Hubert's return to town.

"No engagement--free to do as I please." The words hummed themselves in Hubert's mind to the accompaniment of the throbs of the steam-engine all the way back to London. What did it mean? What did Enid herself mean?

Was it not a humiliating position for a man to be in? Was it fair either to him or to the girl? Did it not mean, as a matter of fact, that Flossy had been mistaken, and that Enid was not in the least in love with him?

He could not say that she had been especially affectionate of late.

Passively gentle, sweet, amiable, she always was, but not emotional, not demonstrative. At that moment Hubert would have given ten years of his life to know what was in her heart--what she really meant, and wanted him to do.

Arrived at Charing Cross Station, he seemed uncertain as to his movements. He hesitated when the porter asked him what he should do with his luggage, and gave an order which he afterwards contradicted.

"No," he said, "I won't do that. Put my things on a cab. All right!

Drive to No.--Russell Square."

This was his home-address; but, when there, he did not go up-stairs. He told his landlady to send his things to his room, and not to expect him back to dinner, as he meant to dine at his club.

He did so; but after dinner his fitful hesitancy seemed to revive. He smoked a cigarette, talked a little to one of his friends, then went out slowly and, as it seemed, indecisively into the street, and called a hansom-cab. Then his indecision seemed to leave him. He jumped in, shouted an address to the driver, and was driven on to a quiet square in Kensington, where he knocked at the door of a tall narrow house, only noticeable in the daytime by reason of the masses of flowers in the balcony, and at night by the rose-colored blinds, illuminated by the light of a lamp, in the drawing-room windows.

The servant who opened the door welcomed him with a smile, as if his face was well known to her. He passed her with a word of explanation, and marched up-stairs to the first-floor, where he tapped lightly at the drawing-room door, and then, without waiting, walked into the room.

A girl in a red dress, who had been kneeling on the rug before the fire, rose to her feet as he came in and uttered a blithesome greeting.

"At last!" she said. "So here you are, monsieur! I was wondering what had become of you, and thought you had deserted me altogether!"

"Could I do that?" said Hubert, in a tone in which mock gallantry was strangely mingled with a tenderness which was altogether passionate and earnest. "Do you really think that I ever could do that?"

The girl he spoke to was Cynthia West.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Cynthia West made a delightful picture as she stood in the glow of the firelight and the rose-shaded lamps. Her dress, of deep red Indian silk, partly covered with puffings of soft-looking net of the same shade, was cut low, to show her beautiful neck and throat; the sleeves were very narrow, so that the whole length of her finely-shaped arm could be seen.

Her dusky hair gave her all the stateliness of a coronet; swept away from her neck to the top of her head, it left only a few stray curls to shadow with bewitching lightness and vagueness the smooth surface of the exquisite nape. What was even more remarkable in Cynthia than the beauty of her face was the perfection of every line and contour of her body; the supple, swelling, lissom figure was full of absolute grace; she could not have been awkward if she had tried. It was the characteristic that chiefly earned her the admiration of men; women looked more often at her face.

"Are you alone?" said Hubert, smiling, and holding out both his hands, in which she impulsively placed her own.

"Quite alone. Madame has gone out; only the servants are in the house.

How charming! We can have a good long chat about everything!"

"Everything!" said Hubert, sinking with a sigh of relief into the low chair that she drew forward. "I shall be only too happy. I have stagnated since I saw you last--which was in March, I believe--an age ago! It is now April, and I am absolutely ignorant as to what has been going on during the last few weeks."

"You have been in the country?" laughed Cynthia. "How I pity you!"

"You do not like the country?"

"Not one little bit. I had enough of it when I was a child."

"You were brought up in the country, were you?" said Hubert carelessly.

"I should never have taken you for a country-bred girl--although your physique does not speak of town-life, after all."

"Is that meant for a compliment?" said Cynthia, the clear color suddenly rising in her cheeks. "Bah--I do not like compliments--from some people!

I should like to forget all about my early life--dull tiresome days! I began to live only when I came to London."

"Which was when you were about fifteen, was it not? You have never told me where you lived before that."

Cynthia made a little _moue_ of disgust.

"You have always been much too polite hitherto to ask unpleasant questions. I tell you I want to forget those earlier years. If you must know, I was at school."

"I beg your pardon," said Hubert; "I had no idea that the subject was so unpleasant to you, or I would not have alluded to it, of course."