"Lord Marque," she said quietly, "why do you not go back to England?"

For a moment what she had said held no meaning for him. Then comprehension smote him like lightning; and, thunderstruck, he remained as he was without moving a muscle, still resting against her window-sill, his lean, sun-browned face illuminated under the zenith's fiery glory.

"Who are you?" he said, under his breath.

"Only an English girl who happened to have seen you in London."

"When?"

She turned deliberately and, resting one arm across the back of her chair, looked him steadily in the eyes.

"I am twenty-five. Since I was twenty your face has been familiar to me."

They exchanged a long and intent gaze.

"I never before saw you," he said.

"Perhaps."

"Have I?"

"Who can know what a fashionable young man really looks at--through a monocle."

"I don't wear it any more. I lost it out West," he said, reddening.

"You lost your top hat once, too," she said.

He grew red as fire.

"So you've heard of that, too?"

"I saw it."

"You! Saw me attacked?" he demanded angrily, while the shame burnt hotter on his cheeks.

"Yes. You ran like the devil."

For a moment he remained mute and furious; then shrugged: "What was I to do?"

"Run," she admitted. "It was the only way."

He managed to smile. "And you were a witness to that?"

She nodded, eyes remote, her teeth nipping at the velvet of her underlip. He, too, remained lost in gloomy retrospection for a while, but finally looked up with a more genuine smile.

"I wonder whatever became of that fleet-footed girl who hung to my heels long after the more solidly constructed aristocracy gave up?"

"Lady Diana Guernsey?"

"That's the one. What became of her?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because she gave me the run of my life. She was a good sport, that girl. I couldn't shake her off; I took to a taxi and she after me in another; my taxi broke down in the suburbs and I started across country, she after me. And the last I saw of her was just after I leaped a hedge and she was coming over it after me--a wonderful athletic young figure in midair silhouetted against the sky line... . That was the last I saw of her. I fancy she must have pulled up dead beat--or perhaps she came a cropper."

"She did," said the girl in a low voice.

"Is that so?" he said, interested. "Hope it didn't damage her."

"She broke her thigh."

"Oh, that's too bad!" he exclaimed. "If I'd guessed any such thing I'd have come back... . The poor little thing! I mean that, though she was nearly six feet, I seem to think of her as little--and, of course, I'm six--two and a half... . Good little sport, that Diana girl! She got over it all right, I hope."

"It lamed her for life, Lord Marque."

Shocked, for a moment he could find no words to characterise his feelings. Then: "Oh, dammitall! I say, it's a rotten shame, isn't it? And all on account of me--that superb young thing taking hedges like a hunter! Oh, come now, you know I--it hurts me all the way through. I wish I'd let her catch me! What would she have done to me? I wouldn't mind being pulled about a bit--or anything--if it would have prevented her injury. By gad, you know, I'd even have eaten her plum cake, frosting and all, to have saved her such a fate."

The girl's eyes searched his. "That was not the most tragic part of it, Lord Marque."

"G.o.d bless us! Was there anything more?"

"Yes... . She was in love with you."

"With--with me?" he repeated, bewildered.

"Yes. As a young, romantic girl she fell in love with you. She was a curious child--like all the Guernseys, a strange mixture of impulse and constancy, of romance and determination. If she had fallen in love with Satan she would have remained constant. But she only fell in love with young Marque... . And she loves him to this day."

"That--that's utterly impossible!" he stammered. "Didn't she become a suffragette and carry a banner and chase me and vow to make me eat my own words frosted on a terrible plum cake?"

"Yes. And all the while she went on loving you."

"How do you know?" he demanded, incredulously.

"She confided in me."

"In you!"

"I knew her well, Lord Marque... . Not as well as I thought I did, perhaps; yet, perhaps better than--many--perhaps better than anybody... . We were brought up together."

"You were her governess?"

"I--attempted to act in a similar capacity... . She was difficult to teach--very, very difficult to govern... . I am afraid I did not do my best with her."

"Why did you leave her to come here?" he asked.

She made no reply.

"Where is she now?"

She looked out into the cinders of the West, making no answer.

He gazed at her in silence for a long time; then: "Is she really lame?"

"Yes."

"Very?"

"It is hip disease."

"But--but that can be cured!" he exclaimed. "It is now perfectly curable. Why doesn't she go to Vienna or to New York----"

"She is going."

"She ought to lose no time!"

"She is going. She only learned the nature of her trouble very recently."

"You mean she has been lame all this time and didn't know what threatened her?"

"She was--too busy to ask. Finally, because she did not get well, she called in a physician. But she is a very determined girl; she refused to believe what the physician told her--until--very recently----"

"See here," he said, "are you in constant communication with her?"

"Constant."

"Then tell her you know me. Tell her how terribly sorry I am. Tell--tell her that I'll do anything to--to--tell her," he burst out excitedly, "that I'll eat her plum cake if that will do her any good--or amuse her--or anything! Tell her to bake it and frost it and fill it full of glue, for all I care--and express it to you; and I'll eat every crumb of that silly speech I made----"

"Wait!" she exclaimed. "Do you realise what you're saying? Do you realise what you're offering to do for a girl--a lame girl--who is already in love with you?"

His youthful face fell.

"By gad," he said, "do you think I ought to marry her? How on earth can I when I'm--I'm dead in love with--somebody myself?"

"You--in love?" she said faintly.

He gazed across the brook at the darkening foliage.

"Oh, yes," he said with a pleasant sort of hopelessness, "but I fancy she cares for another man."

"W-why do you think so?"

"He comes to see her."

"Is that a reason?"

"She won't talk about him."

"When a woman won't talk about a man is it always because she cares for him in that way?"

"Isn't it?"

"No."

They had lifted their heads now, facing each other in the violet dusk. Between them the scent of heliotrope grew sweeter. He said: "I've been all kinds of a fool. For all I know women have as many rights on earth as men have. All I wish is that the plucky girl who took that hedge, banner in hand, were well and happy and married to a really decent fellow."

"But--she loves you."

"And I"--he looked up, encountering her blue eyes--"am already hopelessly in love. What shall I do?"

She said under her breath: "G.o.d knows... . I can not blame you for not wishing to marry a lame girl----"

"It isn't that!"

"But you wouldn't anyhow----"

"I would if I loved her!"

"You couldn't--love a--a cripple! It would not be love; it would be pity----"

He said slowly: "I wish that you were that lame girl. Then you'd understand me."

For a while she sat bolt upright, clasped hands tightening in her lap. Then, turning slowly toward him, she said: "I am going to say good-night... . And thank you--for Diana's sake... . And I am going to say more--I am going to say good-bye."

"Good-bye! Where are you going?"

"To New York."

"When?"

"Before I see you again."

"There is no train until----"

"I shall drive to Moss Centre."

"Where that--that doctor lives----"

"Yes. I am going to New York with him, Lord Marque."

He stood as though stunned for a moment; then set his teeth, clenched his hands, and pulled himself together.

"I think I understand," he said quietly. "And--I wish you--happiness."

She stretched out her hand to him above the heliotrope.

"I--wish it--to you----" suddenly her voice broke; again her teeth caught at her underlip like a child who struggles with emotion. "You--don't understand," she said. "Wait a little while before you--come to any--unhappy--conclusions."

After a moment she made a slight effort to disengage her hand--another--then turned in her chair and dropped her head on the table, her right hand still remaining in his. Presently he released it; and she placed both hands on the edge of the table and her forehead upon them.