“I know I am a burden,” whispered Dinah, clinging closer.

Isabel’s lips pressed her forehead.  “My darling,” she said, “you are such a burden as I could not bear to be without.”

That satisfied Dinah for the time; but it was not the whole of her trouble, and presently, still clasped close to Isabel’s heart, she gave hesitating utterance to the rest.

“It would have been—­so lovely—­to have gone to the Hunt Ball.  I should like to dance with—­with Sir Eustace again.  Is he—­is he really going to stay with the de Vignes?”

“I don’t know, dear.  Very possibly not.”  Isabel’s voice held a hint of constraint though her arms pressed Dinah comfortingly close.  “He will please himself when the time comes no doubt.”

Dinah did not pursue the subject, but her mind was no longer at rest.  She wondered how she could have forgotten Sir Eustace for so long, and now that she remembered him she was all on fire with the longing to see him again.  Rose had spoken so possessively, so confidently, of him, as though—­almost as though—­he had become her own peculiar property during the long dark days in which Dinah had been wandering in another world.

Something in Dinah hotly and fiercely resented this attitude.  She yearned to know if it were by any means justified.  She could not, would not, believe that he had suffered himself to fall like other men a victim to Rose’s wiles.  He was so different from all others, so superbly far above all those other captives.  And had she not heard him laugh and call Rose machine-made?

A great restlessness began to possess her.  She felt she must know what had been happening during her absence from the field.  She must know if Rose had succeeded in adding yet another to her long list of devoted admirers.  She felt that if this were so, she could never, never forgive her.  But it was not possible.  She was sure—­she was sure it was not possible.

Sir Eustace was not the man to grovel at any woman’s feet.  She recalled the arrogance of his demeanour even in his moments of greatest tenderness.  She recalled the magnetic force of his personality, his overwhelming mastery.  She recalled the strong holding of his arms, thrilled yet again to the burning intensity of his kisses.

No, no!  He had never stooped to become one of Rose’s adorers.  If he had ever flirted with her, he had done it out of boredom.  She was beautiful—­ah yes, Rose was beautiful; but Dinah was quite convinced she had no brains.  And Eustace would never seriously consider a woman without brains.

Seriously!  But then had he ever taken her into his serious consideration either?  Had he not rather been at pains to make her understand that what had passed between them was no more than a game to which no serious consequences were attached?  She had caught his fancy, his passing fancy, and now was not her turn over?  Had he not laughed and gone his way?