“What can I do?” I asked.  “It was pitch dark, and I could identify no one.  I am writing Colonel Ray.  That is all.”

“That hateful woman,” she murmured.  “Mr. Ducaine, I believe that if Blenavon is really concerned in this, it is entirely through her influence.”

“Very likely,” I answered.  “I have heard strange things about her.  She is a dangerous woman.”

We were both silent for a moment.  Then Lady Angela, whose eyes were fixed seawards, suddenly turned to me.

“Oh,” she cried, “I am weary of all these bothers and problems and anxieties.  Let us put them away for one hour of this glorious morning.  Dare you play truant for a little while and walk on the sands?”

“I think so,” I answered readily, “if you will wait while I go and put Grooton in charge.”

“I will be scrambling down,” she declared.  “It is not a difficult operation.”

I joined her a few minutes later, and we set our faces toward the point of the bay.  Over our heads the seagulls were lazily drifting and wheeling, the quiet sea stole almost noiselessly up the firm yellow sands.  Farther over the marshes the larks were singing.  Inland, men like tiny specks in the distance were working upon their farms.  We walked for a while in silence, and I found myself watching my companion.  Her head was thrown slightly back, she walked with all the delightful grace of youth and strength, yet there was a cloud which still lingered upon her face.

“These,” I said abruptly “should be the happiest days of your life, Lady Angela.  After all, is it worth while to spoil them by worrying about other people’s doings?”

“Other people’s doings?” she murmured.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Selfishness, you know, is the permitted vice of the young—­and of lovers.”

“Blenavon can scarcely rank amongst the other people with me,” she said.  “He is my only brother.”

“Colonel Ray is to be your husband,” I reminded her, “which is far more important.”

She turned upon me with flaming cheeks.

“You do not understand what you are talking about, Mr. Ducaine,” she said, stiffly.  “Colonel Ray and I are not lovers.  You have no right to assume anything of the sort.”

“If you are not lovers,” I said, “what right have you to marry?”

She seemed a little staggered, as indeed she might be by my boldness.

“You are very mediaeval,” she remarked.

“The mediaeval sometimes survives.  It is as true now as then that loveless marriages are a curse and a sin,” I answered.  “It is the one thing which remains now as it was in the beginning.”

She looked at me furtively, almost timidly.

“I should like to know why you are speaking to me like this,” she said.  “I do not want to seem unkind, but do you think that the length of our acquaintance warrants it?”

“I do not know how long I have known you,” I answered.  “I do not remember the time when I did not know you.  You are one of those people to whom I must say the things which come into my mind.  I think that if you do not love Colonel Ray you have no right to marry him.”