One of the strangest, most disturbing facts about our complex human nature is how very little we know of what is passing in another’s mind.  Helen Brabazon would have been amazed indeed had she seen even only a very little way into her present companion’s secret thoughts.  How surprised she would have been, for instance, to know that the only thing about herself Varick would have liked altered was her association with that part of his life to which he never willingly returned, even in his thoughts.  The part of his life, that is, which had been spent by his dying wife and himself at Redsands.  It was with nervous horror that he unwillingly recalled any incident, however slight, connected with those tragic weeks.  And yet Helen, had she been asked, would have said that he must often dwell on them in loving retrospect.  She honestly believed that the link between them, even now, was a survival of what had been their mutual affection for the then dying woman, and the touching dependence that same woman had shown on their joint love and care.

As they wandered on together, apparently on the most happily intimate terms of liking and of friendship, about the delightful old house, there was scarce a thought in Lionel Varick’s mind that would not have surprised, disturbed, and puzzled his companion.

For one thing, he was looking at Helen Brabazon far more critically than he had looked at any woman for a very long time, telling himself, rather ruefully the while, that she was not the type of girl that at any time of his life would have naturally attracted him.  But he was well aware that this was his misfortune, not his fault; and he did like her—­he did respect her.

How strange it was to know that in her well-shaped little hand there lay such immense potential power!  Varick fully intended that that little hand should one day, sooner rather than later, lie, confidingly, in his.  And when that happened he intended to behave very well.  He would “make good,” as our American cousins call it; he would go into public life, maybe, and make a big name for himself, and, incidentally, for her.  What might he not do, indeed—­with Helen Brabazon’s vast fortune joined to her impeccable good name!  He did not wish to give up his own old family name; but why should they not become the Brabazon-Varicks?  So far had he actually travelled in his own mind, as he escorted his young lady guest about the upper rooms and corridors of Wyndfell Hall.

As he glanced, now and again, at the girl walking composedly by his side, he felt he would have given anything—­anything—­to have known what was behind those candid hazel eyes, that broad white brow.  Again he was playing for a great stake, and playing, this time, more or less in the dark....