Frederic opened his eyes at the sound of a gentle, persistent tapping on the bedroom door. Resting on his elbow, he looked blankly, wonderingly, about the room, and—remembered. The sun streamed into the chamber, filling it with a radiance that almost dazzled him. He rubbed his eyes, and again, as in the night just gone, his thought absorbed the contents of the room.

He had not dreamed it, after all. He was there in Lydia's bed, attended by all the mute, inanimate sentinels that stood guard over her while she slept. The knocking continued. He dreamed on, his blinking eyes still seeking out the dainty, Lydia-like treasures in the enchanted room.

“Frederic!” called a voice outside the door.

He started guiltily.

“All right,” was his cheery response.

“Get up! It's nine o'clock. Or will you have your breakfast in bed, sir?” It was Lydia who spoke, assuming a fine Irish brogue in imitation of their little maid of all work.

“I'll have to, unless my clothes have come over!”

“They are here. Now do hurry.”

He sprang out of bed and bounded across the room. She passed the garments through the partly opened door.

“Morning!” he greeted, sticking his tousled head around the edge.

“Morning!” she responded as briefly.

“Don't wait breakfast for me. I'll skip over home———”

“It will be ready in fifteen minutes,” she said arbitrarily. “Don't dawdle.”

“How pretty, how sweet you are this morning,” he cried, his dark eyes dancing.

“Silly!” she scoffed, but with a radiant smile. Then, with a perfectly childish giggle, she slammed the door and scurried away as if in fear of pursuit.

He was artistic, temperamental. Such as he have not the capacity for haste when there is the slightest opportunity to dream and dawdle. He was a full quarter of an hour taking his tub, and another was consumed in getting into his clothes. At home he was always much longer than this, for he was delayed by the additional task of selecting shirts, ties, socks, and scarf-pins, and changing his mind and all of them three or four times before being satisfied with the effect. He sallied forth in great haste at nine thirty-five, and was extremely proud of himself, although unshaved.

His first act, after warmly greeting Mrs Desmond, was to sit down at the piano. Hurriedly he played a few jerky, broken snatches of the haunting air he had heard the night before.

“I've been wondering if I could remember it,” he apologised, as he followed them into the dining-room. “What's the matter, Lyddy? Didn't you sleep well? Poor old girl, I was a beast to deprive you of your bed.”

“I have a mean headache, that's all,” said the girl quickly. He noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the queer expression, as of trouble, in their depths. “It will go as soon as I've had my coffee.”

Night, with its wonderful sensations, was behind them. Day revealed the shadow that had fallen. They unconsciously shrank from it and drew back into the shelter of their own misgivings. The joyous abandon of the night before was dead. Over its grave stood the leering spectre of unrest.

When he took her in his arms later on, and kissed her, there was not the shadow of a doubt in the mind of either that the restraining influence of a condition over which they had no control was there to mock their endeavour to be natural. They were not to be deceived by the apparent earnestness of the embrace. Each knew that the other was asking a question, even as their lips met and clung in the rather pathetic attempt to confirm the fond dream of the night before. They kissed as through a veil. They were awake once more, and they were wary, unconvinced. The answer to their questions came in the kiss itself, and constraint fell upon them.

Drawn by an impulse that had been struggling within him, Frederic found himself standing at the sitting-room window. It was a sly, covert, though intensely eager look that he directed at another window far below. If he hoped for some sign of life in his father's study he was to be disappointed. The curtains hung straight and motionless. He would have denied the charge that he longed to see Yvonne sitting in the casement, waiting to waft a sign of greeting up to him; he would have denied that the thought was in his mind when he went to the window; and yet he was conscious of a feeling of disappointment, even annoyance.

With considerable adroitness Lydia engaged his attention at the piano. Keyed up as she was, his every emotion was plain to her perceptions. She had anticipated the motive that led him to the window. She knew that it would assert itself in spite of all that he could do to prevent. She waited humbly for the thing to happen, pain in her heart, and when her reading proved true she was prepared to combat its effect. Music was her only ally.

“How does it go, Freddy—the thing you were playing before breakfast?” She was trying to pick up the elusive air. “It is such a fascinating, adorable thing. Is this right?”

He looked at his watch. The few bars she had mastered in her eagerness fell upon inattentive ears at first. But she persisted. He came over and stood beside her. His long, slim fingers joined hers on the keyboard, and the sensuous strains of the waltz responded to his touch. He smiled patiently as she struggled to repeat what he had played. The fever of the thing took hold of him at last, as she had known it would. Leaning over her shoulder, his cheek quite close to hers, he played. Her hands dropped into her lap.

She retained her seat on the bench. Her cunning brain told her that it would be a mistake to relinquish her place at the keyboard. He would play it through a time or two, mechanically perhaps, and then his interest would be gone. He would have gratified her simple request, and that would have been the end. She led him on by interrupting time and again in her eagerness to grasp the lesson he was giving. Finally she moved over on the bench, and he sat down beside her. He was absorbed in the undertaking. His brow cleared. His smile was a happy, eager one.

“It's a tricky thing, Lyddy,” he said enthusiastically, “but you'll get it. Now listen.”

For an hour they sat there, master and pupil, sweetheart and lover. The fear was less in the heart of one when, tiring at last, the other contentedly abandoned the rÔle of taskmaster and threw himself upon the couch, remarking, as he stretched himself in luxurious ease:

“I like this, Lyddy. I wish you didn't have to go over there and dig away at that confounded journal. I like this so well that, 'pon my soul, I'd enjoy loafing here with you the whole day long.”

Her heart leaped. “You shall have your wish, Freddy,” she said, barely able to conceal the note of eagerness in her voice. “I am not going to work to-day. I—my head, you know. Mother telephoned to Mr Brood this morning before you were up.”

“You're going to loaf?” he cried gladly. “Bully! And I may stay? But, gee, I forgot your headache. It will———” He was staring up from the couch when she hastily broke in, shaking her head vigorously.

“Lie still. My head is much better. I want you to stay, dear. I—I want to have you all to myself again. Oh, it will be so good—so good to while away an idle day with you!”

She was standing beside the couch. He reached forth and took her hand in his, laying it against his lips.

“It won't be an idle day,” said he seriously. “We shall be very busy.”

“Busy?” she inquired apprehensively.

“Talking things over,” he said briefly. “Of course, I ought to go home and face the music.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's something I can't talk about, Lyddy. Let's forget our troubles for to-day.”

“Better still, let us share them. Stay here with me. Don't go home to-day, Freddy. I———”

“Oh, I've got to have it out with father some time,” he said bitterly. “It may as well be now as later on. We've got to come to an understanding.”

Her heart was cold. She was afraid of what would come out of that “understanding.” All night long she had lain with wide-staring eyes, thinking of the horrid thing James Brood had said to her. Far in the night she aroused her mother from a sound sleep to put the question that had been torturing her for hours. Mrs Desmond confessed that her husband had told her that Brood had never considered Frederic to be his son, and then the two lay side by side for the remainder of the night without uttering a word, and yet keenly awake. They were thinking of the hour when Brood would serve notice on the intruder!

Lydia now realised that the hour was near. Frederic himself would challenge the wrath of all these bitter years, and it would fall upon his unsuspecting head with cruel, obliterating force.

The girl shivered as with a racking chill. “Have it out with father,” he had said in his ignorance. He was preparing to rush headlong to his doom. To prevent that catastrophe was the single, all-absorbing thought in Lydia's mind. Her only hope lay in keeping the men apart until she could extract from Brood a promise to be merciful, and this she intended to accomplish if she had to go down on her knees and grovel before the man.

“Oh, Freddy,” she cried earnestly, “why take the chance of making a bad matter worse?” Even as she uttered the words she realised how stupid, how ineffectual they were.

“It can't be much worse,” he said gloomily. “I am inclined to think he'd relish a straight-out, fair, and square talk, anyhow. Moreover, I mean to take Yvonne to task for the thing she said—or implied last night. About you, I mean. She———”

“Oh, I beg of you, don't!”

“It was—unspeakable. I don't see what could have come over her.”

“She was jealous. She admitted it, dear. If I don't mind, why should you incur———”

“Do you really believe she—she loves the governor enough to be as jealous as all that?” he exclaimed, a curious gleam in his eyes—an expression she did not like.

“Of course I think so!” she cried emphatically. “What a question! Have you any reason to suspect that she does not love your father?”

“No—certainly not,” he said in some confusion. Then, after a moment: “Are you quite sure this headache of yours is real, Lyddy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn't it an excuse to stay away from—from Yvonne, after what happened last night? Be honest, dear.”

She was silent for a long time, weighing her answer. Was it best to be honest with him?

“I confess that it has something to do with it,” she admitted. Lydia could not be anything but truthful.

“I thought so. It's—it's a rotten shame, Lyddy. That's why I want to talk to her. I want to reason with her. It's all so perfectly silly, this misunderstanding. You've just got to go on as you were before, Lyddy—just as if it hadn't happened. It———”

“I shall complete the work for your father, Freddy,” she said quietly. “Two or three days more will see the end. After that neither my services nor my presence will be required over there.”

“You don't mean to say——” he began, unbelievingly.

“It isn't likely I'd go there for pleasure, is it?” she interrupted dryly.

“But think of the old times, the———”

“I can think of them just as well here as anywhere else. No; I shan't annoy Mrs Brood, Freddy.” It was on the tip of her tongue to say more, but she thought better of it.

“They're going abroad soon,” he ventured. “At least, that's father's plan. Yvonne isn't so keen about it. She calls this being abroad, you know. Besides,” he hurried on in his eagerness to excuse Yvonne, “she's tremendously fond of you.”

Lydia was wise. “I would give a great deal to be able to really believe so, Freddy. I—I could be very fond of her.”

He warmed to the cause.

“No end of times she's said you were the finest———” Her smile—an odd one, such as he had never seen on her lips before—checked his eager speech. He bridled. “Of course, if you don't choose to believe me, there's nothing more to be said. She meant it, however.”

“I am sure she said it, Freddy,” she hastened to declare. “Will she be pleased with our—our marriage?”

It required a great deal of courage on her part to utter these words, but she was determined to bring the true situation home to him.

He did not even hesitate, and there was conviction in his voice as he replied:

“It doesn't matter whether she's pleased or displeased. We're pleasing ourselves, are we not? There's no one else to consider, dear.”

Her eyes were full upon his, and there was wonder in them.

“Thank you—thank you, Freddy,” she cried. “I—I knew you'd———” The sentence remained unfinished.

“Has there ever been a doubt in your mind?” he asked uneasily, after a moment. He knew there had been misgivings, and he was ready, in his self-abasement, to resent them if given the slightest opening. Guilt made him arrogant.

“No,” she answered simply.

The answer was not what he expected. He flushed painfully.

“I—I thought perhaps you'd—you'd get a notion in your head that———” He, too, stopped for want of the right words to express himself without committing the egregious error of letting her see that it had been in his thoughts to accuse her of jealousy.

She waited for a moment. “That I might have got the notion in my head you did not love me any longer? Is that what you started to say?”

“Yes,” he confessed, averting his eyes.

“I've been unhappy at times, Freddy, but that is all,” she said steadily. “You see, I know how honest you really are. I know it far better than you know it yourself.”

“I wonder just how honest I am,” he muttered. “I wonder what would happen if——— But nothing can happen. Nothing ever will happen. Thank you, old girl, for saying what you said just now. It's—it's bully of you.”

He got up and began pacing the floor. She leaned back in her chair, deliberately giving him time to straighten out his thoughts for himself. Wiser than she knew herself to be, she held back the warm, loving words of encouragement, of gratitude, of belief.

But she was not prepared for the impetuous appeal that followed. He threw himself down beside her and grasped her hands in his. His face seemed suddenly old and haggard, his eyes burned like coals of fire. Then, for the first time, she had an inkling of the great struggle that had been going on inside of him for weeks and weeks.

“Listen, Lyddy,” he began nervously; “will you marry me to-morrow? Are you willing to take the chance that I'll be able to support you, to earn enough———”

“Why, Freddy!” she cried, half starting up from the couch. She was dumbfounded.

“Will you? Will you? I mean it,” he went on, almost argumentatively.

He was very much in earnest, but alas! the fire, the passion of the importunate lover was missing. She shrank back into the corner of the couch, staring at him with puzzled eyes. Comprehension was slow in arriving. As he hurried on with his plea she began to see clearly, her sound brain grasped the significance of this sudden decision on his part.

“There's no use waiting, dear. I'll never be more capable of earning a living than I am right now. I can go into the office with Brooks any day, and I—I think I can make good. God knows, I can try hard enough. Brooks says he's got a place there for me in the bond department. It won't be much at first, but I can work into a pretty good—what's the matter? Don't you think I can do it? Have you no faith in me? Are you afraid to take a chance?”

She had smiled sadly—it seemed to him reprovingly. His cheek flushed.

“What has put all this into your head, Freddy dear?” she asked shrewdly.

“Why, good Lord, haven't we had this very thing in mind for years?” he cried. “Haven't we talked about my———”

“What put it into your head—just now?” she insisted.

“I don't know what you're driving at,” he floundered.

“Don't you think it would be safer—I mean wiser if you were to wait until you are quite certain of yourself, Freddy?”

“I am certain of myself,” he exploded. “What do you mean? What sort of talk is this you are———”

“Hush! Don't be angry, dear. Be honest now. Don't you understand just what I mean?” They looked squarely into each other's eyes.

“I want you to marry me at once,” said he doggedly. “You know I love you, Lyddy. Is there anything more to say than that?”

“Don't you want to tell me, Freddy?”

His eyes wavered. “I can't go on living as I have been for the past few months. I've just got to end it, Lyddy. You don't understand—you can't, and there isn't any use in trying to explain the——”

“I think I do understand, dear,” she said quietly, laying her hand on his. “I understand so completely that there isn't any use in your trying to explain. But don't you think you are a bit cowardly?”

“Cowardly?” he gasped, and then the blood rushed to his face.

“Is it quite fair to me—or to yourself?” He was silent. She waited for a moment and then went on resolutely. “I know just what it is that you are afraid of, Freddy. I shall marry you, of course. I love you more than anything else in all the world. But are you quite fair in asking me to marry you while you are still afraid, dear?”

“Before God, Lyddy, I love no one else but you!” he cried earnestly. “I know what it is you are thinking, and I—I don't blame you. But I want you now—you don't know how much I need you now! I want to begin a new life with you. I want to feel that you are with me—just you—strong and brave and enduring. I am adrift. I need you.”

“I know you love me, Frederic. I am absolutely certain of it,” she said slowly, weighing her words carefully. “But I cannot marry you to-morrow—nor for a long time after to-morrow. In a year—yes. But not now, dear; not just now. You—you understand, don't you? Say that you understand.”

His chin sank upon his breast. “Of course I understand,” he said in a very low voice.

“I shall never love you any more than I love you now, Freddy—never so much, perhaps, as at this moment.”

“I know, Lyddy; I know,” he said dully.

“If you insist, I will marry you to-morrow; but you cannot—you will not ask it of me, will you?”

“But you know I do love you,” he cried. “There isn't any doubt in your mind, Lyddy. There is no one else I tell you.”

“I think I am just beginning to understand men,” she remarked enigmatically.

“And to wonder why they call women the weaker sex, eh?”

“Yes,” she said, so seriously that the wry smile died on his lips. “I don't believe there are many women who would ask a man to be sorry for them. That's really what all this amounts to, isn't it, Freddy?”

“By Jove!” he exclaimed wonderingly.

“You are a strong, self-willed, chivalrous man, and yet you think nothing of asking a woman to protect you against yourself; You are afraid to stand alone. Wait! You need me because you are a strong man and are afraid that your very strength will lead you into ignoble warfare. You are afraid of your strength, not of your weakness. So you ask me to help you. Without thinking, you ask me to marry you to-morrow. The idea came to you like a flash of light in the darkness. Five minutes—yes, one minute before you asked it of me, Freddy dear, you were floundering in the darkness, uncertain which way to turn. You were afraid of the things you could not see. You looked for some place in which to hide. The flash of light revealed a haven of refuge. So you asked me to to marry you to-morrow.”

All through this indictment she had held his hand clasped tightly in both of hers. He was looking at her with a frank acknowledgment growing in his eyes.

“Are you ashamed of me, Lyddy?” he asked.

“No,” she said, meeting his gaze steadily. “I am a little disappointed, that's all. It is you who are ashamed.”

“I am,” said he simply. “It wasn't fair.”

“Love will endure. I am content to wait,” she said with a wistful smile.

“You will be my wife, no matter what happens? You won't let this make any difference?”

“You are not angry with me?”

“Angry? Why should I be angry with you, Lyddy? For shaking some sense into me? For seeing through me with that wonderful, far-sighted brain of yours? Why, I could go down on my knees to you. I could———”

“Let me think, Freddy,” she cried, suddenly confronted by her own declaration of the night before. She had told James Brood that she would marry this discredited son of his the instant he was ready to take her unto himself. She had flung that in the older man's face, and she had meant every word of it.

“I—I take back what I said, dear. I will marry you to-morrow.” She spoke rapidly, jerkily; her eyes were very dark and luminous.

“What has come over you?” He stared at her in astonishment. “What—oh, I see! You are not sure of me. You———”

“Yes, yes, I am! It isn't that. I did not know what I was saying when I refused to———”

“Oh, there you go, just like a woman!” he cried triumphantly. “Spoiling everything! You dear, lovable, inconsequent, regular girl! Hurray! Now we're back where we began, and I'm holding the whip. You bring me to my senses and then promptly lose your own.” He clasped her in his arms and held her close. “You dear, dear Lyddy!”

“I mean it, dear heart.” The whisper smothered in his embrace. “To-morrow—to-day, if you will. We will go away. We will———”

“No,” he said, quite resolutely; “you have shown me the way. I've just got to make good in your estimation before I can hold you to your promise. You're splendid, Lyddy; you're wonderful, but—well, I was unfair a while ago. I mean to be fair now. We'll wait. It's better so. I will come again and ask you, but it won't be as it was just now. It would not be right for me to take you at your word. We'll wait.”

Neither spoke for many minutes. It was she who broke the silence.

“You must promise one thing, Frederic. For my sake, avoid a quarrel with your father. I could not bear that. You will promise, dear? You must.”

“I don't intend to quarrel with him; but if I am to remain in his house there has got to be———” He paused, his jaw set stubbornly.

“Promise me you will wait. He is going away in two weeks. When he returns—later on—next fall———”

“Oh, if it really distresses you, Lyddy, I'll———”

“It does distress me. I want your promise.”

“I'll do my part,” he said resignedly, “and next fall will see us married, so———”

The telephone-bell in the hall was ringing. Frederic released Lydia's hand and sat up rather stiffly, as one who suddenly suspects that he is being spied upon. The significance of the movement did not escape Lydia. She laughed mirthlessly.

“I will see who it is,” she said, and arose. Two red spots appeared in his cheeks. Then it was that she realised he had been waiting all along for the bell to ring; he had been expecting a summons.

“If it's for me, please say—er—say I'll———” he began, somewhat disjointedly, but she interrupted him.

“Will you stay here for luncheon, Frederic? And this afternoon we will go to—oh, is there a concert or a recital———”

“Yes, I'll stay if you'll let me,” he said wistfully. “We'll find something to do.”

She went to the telephone. He heard the polite greetings, the polite assurances that she had not taken cold, two or three laughing rejoinders to what must have been amusing comments on the storm and its effect on timid creatures, and then:

“Yes, Mrs Brood, I will call him to the phone.”