sympathies might become
modified, even as the excesses, committed by those who had been his
friends, grew in horror and in intensity. And Marguerite could not speak
to her brother about the secrets of her heart; she hardly understood
them herself, she only knew that, in the midst of luxury, she felt
lonely and unhappy.

And now Armand was going away; she feared for his safety, she longed for
his presence. She would not spoil these last few sadly-sweet moments by
speaking about herself. She led him gently along the cliffs, then down
to the beach; their arms linked in one another's, they had still so much
to say that lay just outside that secret orchard of theirs.

CHAPTER VIII THE ACCREDITED AGENT

The afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close; and a long, chilly English
summer's evening was throwing a misty pall over the green Kentish
landscape.

The DAY DREAM had set sail, and Marguerite Blakeney stood alone on the
edge of the cliff over an hour, watching those white sails, which bore
so swiftly away from her the only being who really cared for her, whom
she dared to love, whom she knew she could trust.

Some little distance away to her left the lights from the coffee-room of
"The Fisherman's Rest" glittered yellow in the gathering mist; from time
to time it seemed to her aching nerves as if she could catch from thence
the sound of merry-making and of jovial talk, or even that perpetual,
senseless laugh of her husband's, which grated continually upon her
sensitive ears.

Sir Percy had had the delicacy to leave her severely alone. She supposed
that, in his own stupid, good-natured way, he may have understood that
she would wish to remain alone, while those white sails disappeared into
the vague horizon, so many miles away. He, whose notions of propriety
and decorum were supersensitive, had not suggested even that an
attendant should remain within call. Marguerite was grateful to her
husband for all this; she always tried to be grateful to him for his
thoughtfulness, which was constant, and for his generosity, which really
was boundless. She tried even at times to curb the sarcastic, bitter
thoughts of him, which made her--in spite of herself--say cruel,
insulting things, which she vaguely hoped would wound him.

Yes! she often wished to wound him, to make him feel that she too held
him in contempt, that she too had forgotten that she had almost loved
him. Loved that inane fop! whose thoughts seemed unab