"In your study, sir," Thompson answered, mild amazement in his voice.

"I couldn't show a lady like her nowhere else, could I, sir?"

Again Fergusson smiled. He knew them so well--those ladies who made such an appeal to Thompson's aesthetic soul, the ladies of rather abnormally sized hats, garments they called "stylish," with lace blouses, out of which rose an unnecessary length of neck, encircled by artificial pearls. Oh! he knew precisely what sort of a lady he would find in his study, and the knowledge did not make him hasten his steps, as he went up the staircase to the sitting-room. Long before opening the door, he had decided to make short shrift of the lady--he knew precisely how he should frame his terse speech--and there was a distinctly grim look upon his usually kindly face, when he entered the room. But when he saw who it was that stood in the May sunlight, close to the open window, the grim expression died away, unbounded astonishment took its place, and he caught his breath suddenly, standing stock still on the threshold, and staring at his visitor, as if she was an apparition from another world.

"You?" he said; and it seemed as though that single word were the only one that he could bring himself to utter. "You?" he repeated, as he moved slowly across the room, his eyes riveted upon Lady Cicely's face.

She stood very still, just where she had been when he first entered, the sunlight falling upon the pure gold of her hair, and on the exceeding fairness of her face; her eyes very blue, and very deep, looking up at Fergusson with a strange mixture of embarra.s.sment and sweetness, which set his heart beating fast.

In all the time of his acquaintance with her, she had never looked younger or fairer than on this May morning. Her gown of some pale grey material, exactly suited the pale pure tints of her hair and complexion, and the great pink rose fastened against the soft feathers of her grey boa, harmonised with the delicate colour that had risen to her cheeks, as Fergusson entered.

"I--promised I would come some day to see your house, and your surgery," she said, hesitating a little between the words, but speaking firmly nevertheless, "and--I thought I would come to-day."

"What made you come to-day?" he asked, an odd abruptness that almost amounted to roughness, in his voice. "Why to-day, of all days?"

"I--don't know," she answered. "I believe I acted--on impulse. It just came into my head that I must come this morning, and--you know I am rather a creature of impulse--and I came--straight away."

"It is so curious you should have come to-day," he persisted, still with that odd abruptness of voice and manner. "You have come in time to see my boats burnt."

"Your--boats--burnt?" her voice was puzzled; she looked into his face with less of embarra.s.sment, because in some indefinite way she felt that he was more embarra.s.sed than she, and it gave her courage. "Why are you burning boats?"

"Because, as I told you when I came to see you, I am giving up the life here, giving it up altogether, irrevocably, for always. There is to be no turning back."

"No turning back," she repeated softly, her eyes watching the changing expressions on his face. "Why no turning back?"

"Why? Because I have made up my mind to begin a new life, in a new world, and--when I make up my mind a thing must be done, I generally carry it through."

"Ah!" she said. "You generally carry it through?"

"Yes," he spoke almost harshly. "The boats will be burnt to-day--finally burnt."

She stood very still in the sunlight, her pretty head bent down, her hands slowly moving over the k.n.o.b of the dainty sunshade she carried, a little smile lurking about the corners of her mouth; her eyes fixed on the faded colours of the Turkey carpet.

"I think--I should like--to be here for the burning of the boats," she said. "It sounds so--subversive--so final."

"It is subversive--it is final," was the short reply, and a flame of anger against her shot up within him. "Why did she come here to torture him? What had possessed her to come and stand here in his room, in the sunlight, stand here amongst all his most cherished belongings, just as in some of his mad dreams, he had pictured she might stand--looking so fair, so young, so sweet? Why had she done it?

It was cruel, not just to a man who was trying to follow his code of honour, to its bitterest consequences." So his thoughts ran, whilst Cicely still stood there, moving her hands over the k.n.o.b of her sunshade, the little smile still hovering upon her lips.

"I wonder," she said slowly, after a moment's silence--and Fergusson, watching her intently, saw that a deeper colour crept into her face--"I wonder--whether--the burning--is--really necessary?"

"Quite necessary." His tone was abrupt to the point of rudeness. "I have made up my mind."

"And--you--never--change--your mind?" She shot one swift glance at him from her pretty eyes, lowering them again instantly, whilst her hands moved more nervously, and her voice shook.

"Not when I am sure I am acting rightly," he answered. "And in this case I have no doubts."

She was silent again, for what seemed to the man who watched her many, many minutes, though only a few seconds had ticked by, before she said gently--

"I wonder--why you--are so very sure?"

"Because there is no room for doubt," was the terse response, and again there was silence, until Cicely said softly--

"I--think you are wrong. I--believe there is great room for doubt."

"Why do you say that?" he exclaimed, that almost rough note in his voice again. "How can you tell, how can you know, what I----" He broke off with significant abruptness, and Cicely moved a few steps nearer to him.

"Dr. Fergusson," she said, her voice very low, her words hurried. "I don't know--how to explain--what makes me say--that I am sure you are wrong to--to burn your boats. I--came this morning--on purpose to tell you----"

"To tell me what?" he questioned, his own voice more gentle, because of the nervousness in hers.

"To tell you--you are--wrong to give up your work here, and go away."

"Wrong? Why?" For the life of him, Fergusson could not utter another syllable; he could only stand and stare and stare at the bent golden head, wishing desperately that she would go away, before he was conquered by his overmastering desire to seize her hands in his, and draw her close against his breast.

"Quite, quite wrong," she answered firmly, lifting her eyes again, and looking into his face; "you mustn't go away. I came this morning--to tell you--that you mustn't go away. Baba and I--can't spare you." The last words were spoken so softly as to be almost inaudible; but they reached Fergusson's ears, and he looked at the speaker, as though he could hardly believe the evidence of his senses.

"Baba--and--you?" he repeated.

"Baba--and--I," she whispered. "Oh! perhaps I ought not to have come, but there seemed no other way to show you--what a dreadful mistake you were going to make, and--Rupert says I am always a creature of impulse," she ended with a little laugh. "I came--on--impulse, because--because I had to come." She came closer to his side, and laid one of her hands upon his coat sleeve, her blue eyes looking into his, with the wistful, appealing eagerness of a child's eyes. "I--don't know what Cousin Arthur would say--if he knew," she ended inconsequently.

"But--I can't quite understand even now," Fergusson said, with a not very successful effort to speak quietly. "I--do not think I can be of any use to--you--and little Baba. There are plenty of other doctors who----"

"Plenty of other _doctors_," she answered, a quiver in her voice; "but only one you--and--and are all men always so dense? Please understand, Baba--and I--ask you--to stay. We--are very bold--and brazen--Baba and I!"

She did not look up at him now. She did not see the look of radiant joy that swept across his face, she only felt his arms go suddenly round her, she only realised what a relief it was to hide her burning cheeks against his rough coat, whilst he bent his head to hers, and murmured pa.s.sionate inarticulate little words, that would not frame themselves into sentences, and yet seemed to flood her world with happiness.

"I can't understand it," he said presently, putting his hand softly under her chin and lifting her face, so that he could look deep into her eyes; "you can't mean--that you--would stoop--to me?"

"I didn't know how to make you understand without telling you in plain English that I--that you----" She broke off again, her eyes dropping before the look in his, the colour deepening in her cheeks.

"That you--and Baba--want me?" he quoted softly.

"Yes; we don't think we can do without you, Baba and I. We can't let you go to the Far West, or--anywhere very far away from us. Only----"

"Only?" he whispered, his lips close to hers.

"Only--I didn't think I could ever be so--horribly brazen--as to ask a man to----"

"You haven't asked me anything," he answered whimsically, a smile on his lips, a humorous twinkle in the eyes that looked so tenderly at her rosy face. "You haven't asked me anything yet!"

"Don't make me more ashamed," she whispered. "It is dreadful to have come--to have said--to----"

"To have played the part of a gracious and lovely queen, whose Prince Consort dares not speak, until she gives him the right?" His voice was a caressing whisper, his arm held her more closely. "And even now, I do not know whether I have any business to accept the right you give me? You and I are such poles asunder."

"Are we?" she answered softly, her hand touching his. "Are we really 'poles asunder,' just because I happen to have a little more money than you have? Aren't we just a man and woman, who----"

"Who?" he echoed gently, as she paused, and his face was bent very near to hers, to hear her answer.

"Who--care for each other," she whispered confusedly. "I don't think--you ought to make me say all the--difficult things."