A great sob went through Dot.  Her trouble was more than she could bear.  She clung to Adela with unaccustomed closeness.

“I’ve promised to marry Fletcher at the end of the week—­instead of going back with you to the farm.”

“I thought that was what he was after,” said Adela.  “But—­don’t you want to?”

“No,” whispered Dot, trembling.

“Well, why don’t you tell him so—­tell him he’s got to wait?  Shall I tell him for you, you poor little thing?” Adela’s voice was full of compassion.

But Dot was instant in her refusal.  “No, oh, no!  Don’t tell him!  I—­I couldn’t give him—­any particular reason for waiting.  I shall feel better—­I’m sure I shall feel better—­when it’s over.”

“I expect you will,” said Adela.  “But I don’t like your being miserable.  I say, Dot—­” she clasped the quivering form closer, with a sudden rare flash of intuition—­“there isn’t—­anyone else you like better, is there?”

But at that Dot started as if she had been stung, and drew herself swiftly away.  “Oh, no!” she said, vehemently.  “No—­no—­no!”

“Then I shouldn’t worry,” said Adela, sensibly.  “It’s nothing but nerves.”

She kissed her and went to her own room, where she speedily slept.  But Dot lay wide-eyed, unresting, while the hours crawled by, seeing only the vivid blue eyes that had looked into hers, and thrilled her—­and thrilled her with their magic.

In the morning she arose early, urged by a fevered restlessness that drove her with relentless force.  Dressing, she discovered the loss of a little heart-shaped brooch, Jack’s gift, which she always wore.

Adela, still lying in bed, assured her that she had seen it in her dress the previous evening while at dinner.  “It probably came out in that little conservatory place when Fletcher was embracing you,” she said.

“Not very likely, I think,” said Dot, flushing.

Nevertheless, since she valued it, she finished dressing in haste and departed to search for it.

There was no one about with the exception of a man who was cleaning up the billiard-room and assured her that her property was not there.  So she passed on along the passage to the shabby little glass-house whither she and Fletcher had retreated on the previous evening.

She expected to find the place deserted, and was surprised by a whiff of tobacco-smoke as she entered.  The next moment sharply she drew back; for a man’s figure rose up from the seat under the billiard-room window on which she had rested the previous evening.  His great frame seemed to fill the place.  Dot turned to flee.

But on the instant he spoke, checking her.  “Don’t go for a moment!  I know what you’re looking for.  It’s that little heart of yours.  I’ve got it here.”

She paused almost in spite of herself.  His voice was pitched very low.  He spoke to her as if he were speaking to a frightened child.  And he smiled at her with the words—­a frank and kindly smile.