The gentlemen bowed and hasted upon their several errands, leaving Audrey and Evelyn standing face to face in the sunny path.  “You are well, I hope,” said the latter, in her low, clear voice, “and happy?”

“I am well, Mistress Evelyn,” answered Audrey.  “I think that I am not unhappy.”

The other gazed at her in silence; then, “We have all been blind,” she said. “‘Tis not a year since May Day and the Jaquelins’ merrymaking.  It seems much longer.  You won the race,—­do you remember?—­and took the prize from my hand.  And neither of us thought of all that should follow—­did we?—­or guessed at other days.  I saw you last night at the theatre, and you made my heart like to burst for pity and sorrow.  You were only playing at woe?  You are not unhappy, not like that?”

Audrey shook her head.  “No, not like that.”

There was a pause, broken by Evelyn.  “Mr. Haward is in town,” she said, in a low but unfaltering voice, “He was at the playhouse last night.  I watched him sitting in a box, in the shadow....  You also saw him?”

“Yes,” said Audrey.  “He had not been there for a long, long time.  At first he came night after night....  I wrote to him at last and told him how he troubled me,—­made me forget my lines,—­and then he came no more.”

There was in her tone a strange wistfulness.  Evelyn drew her breath sharply, glanced swiftly at the dark face and liquid eyes.  Mr. Grymes yet held the manager and his wife in conversation, but Mr. Lee, a small jessamine-scented glove in hand, was hurrying toward them from the summer-house.

“You think that you do not love Mr. Haward?” said Evelyn, in a low voice.

“I loved one that never lived,” said Audrey simply.  “It was all in a dream from which I have waked.  I told him that at Westover, and afterwards here in Williamsburgh.  I grew so tired at last—­it hurt me so to tell him ... and then I wrote the letter.  He has been at Fair View this long time, has he not?”

“Yes,” said Evelyn quietly.  “He has been alone at Fair View.”  The rose in her cheeks had faded; she put her lace handkerchief to her lips, and shut her hand so closely that the nails bit into the palm.  In a moment, however, she was smiling, a faint, inscrutable smile, and presently she came a little nearer and took Audrey’s hand in her own.

The soft, hot, lingering touch thrilled the girl.  She began to speak hurriedly, not knowing why she spoke nor what she wished to say:  “Mistress Evelyn”—­

“Yes, Audrey,” said Evelyn, and laid a fluttering touch upon the other’s lips, then in a moment spoke herself:  “You are to remember always, though you love him not, Audrey, that he never was true lover of mine; that now and forever, and though you died to-night, he is to me but an old acquaintance,—­Mr. Marmaduke Haward of Fair View.  Remember also that it was not your fault, nor his perhaps, nor mine, and that with all my heart I wish his happiness....  Ah, Mr. Lee, you found it?  My thanks, sir.”