“I do forgive you because you speak the truth,” Dorise replied.  “I know that mother wants me to marry a rich man, and—­”

“And she will compel you to do so, darling.  I am convinced of that.”

“She won’t!” cried the girl.  “I will never marry a man I do not love!”

“Your mother, if she doesn’t suspect our compact, will soon do so,” he said.  “She’s a clever woman.  She is on the alert, because she intends you to marry soon, and to marry a rich man.”

“Mother is far too fond of society, I admit.  She lives only for her gay friends now that father is dead.  She spends lavishly upon luncheons and dinners at the Ritz, the Carlton, and Claridge’s; and by doing so we get to know all the best people.  But what does it matter to me?  I hate it all because——­”

And she looked straight into his eyes as she broke off.

“Because,” she whispered, “because—­because I love you, Hugh!”

“Ah! darling!  You have never been so frank with me before,” he said softly.  “You do not know how much those words of yours mean to me!  You do not know how all my life, all my hopes, all my future, is centred in your own dear self!” and clasping her again tightly in his arms he pressed his lips fondly to hers in a long passionate embrace.

Yet within the stout heart of Hugh Henfrey, who was so straight, honest and upright a young fellow as ever trod the Broad at Oxford, lay that ghastly secret—­indeed, a double secret—­that of his revered father’s mysterious end and the inexplicable attack upon Yvonne Ferad at the very moment when he had been about to learn the truth.

They lingered there beside the mountain stream for a long time, until the sun sank and the light began to fail.  Again and again he told her of his great love for her, but he said nothing of the strange clause in his father’s will.  She knew Louise Lambert, having met her once walking in the park with her lover.  Hugh had introduced them, and had afterwards explained that the girl was the adopted daughter of a great friend of his father.

Dorise little dreamed that if her lover married her he would inherit the remainder of old Mr. Henfrey’s fortune.

“Do come over to the ball at Nice to-night,” the girl urged presently as they stood with hands clasped gazing into each other’s eyes.  “It will be nothing without you.”

“Ah! darling, that’s very nice of you to say so, but I think we ought to be discreet.  Your mother has invited the Count to go with you.”

“I hate him!” Dorise declared.  “He’s all elegance, bows and flattery.  He bores me to death.”

“I can quite understand that.  But your mother is fond of his society.  She declares that he is so amusing, and in Paris he knows everyone worth knowing.”

“Oh, yes.  He gave us an awfully good time in Paris last season—­took us to Longchamps, and we afterwards went to Deauville with him.  He wins and loses big sums on the turf.”