She came in unaccustomed garb to me.  She wore a grey dress of some soft material, and a large black hat with feathers.  Her skirts were gathered up in her hand, and I heard the jingling of harness at the corner of the avenue where her carriage was waiting.  I opened the door, and she entered with a soft swish of silk and a gentle rustling.  The room seemed instantly full of perfume of Neapolitan violets, a great bunch of which were in her bosom.

She looked swiftly around, and I fancied that it was a relief to her to find me alone.

“Is Colonel Ray here?” she asked.

“He is waiting for you,” I answered, “on the sands.  I promised to call him directly you came.”

I moved toward the door, but she checked me with an imperative gesture.

“Wait,” she said.

I came slowly back and stood by my table.  She was sitting with her hands clasped together, looking into the fire.  She looked very girlish and frail.

“I want to think—­for a moment,” she said.  “Everything seems confusion.  My father has commanded me to break my engagement with Colonel Ray.”

I remained silent.  What was there, indeed, for me to say?

“In my heart,” she went on slowly, “I know that my father is wrong and that Colonel Ray is right.  He has simply done his duty.  Blenavon was being sorely tempted.  He is better away—­out of the country.  Oh, I am sure of that.”

“Colonel Ray has done what he believed to be his duty,” I said slowly.  “It is hard that he should suffer for that.”

“Often,” she murmured, “one has to suffer for doing the right thing.  My father has made himself a poor man because of his sense of what was right.  I do not know what to do.”

I glanced out of the window.  For many reasons I did not wish to prolong this interview.

“He is waiting,” I reminded her.

“I must do one of two things,” she murmured.  “I must break my faith with my father—­or with him.”

Then she lifted her eyes to mine.

“Tell me what you think, Mr. Ducaine?” she asked.

I opened my lips to speak, but I could not.  Was it fair that she should ask me?  My little room was peopled with dreams of her, with delightful but impossible visions.  My very nerves were full of the joy of her presence.  It was madness to ask for my judgment, when the very poetry of my life was an unreasoning and hopeless love for her.

“I cannot!” I muttered.  “You must not ask me.”

She seemed surprised.  After all, I had guarded my secret well, then?

“You will not refuse to help me,” she pleaded.

I set my teeth hard.  I longed for Ray, but there were no signs of him.

“Your father has ordered you to break your engagement with Colonel Ray,” I said, “but he has done so under a misapprehension of the facts.  You owe obedience to your father, but you owe more—­to—­the man whose wife you have promised to be.  I do not think you should give him up.”