ess and quiet by the terrace parapet, pale blue eyes resting on
the remoter hills--not always, for at intervals she ventured a furtive
look at Duane, and there was something of stealth and of fright in the
stolen glance.

As for Scott, he sat on the parapet, legs swinging, fussing with a pair
of binoculars and informing the two people behind him--who were not
listening--that he could distinguish a black-billed cuckoo from a
thrasher at six hundred yards.

Which edified neither Sylvia nor Duane, but the boy continued to impart
information with unimpaired cheerfulness until Kathleen came out from
the house.

"How's Sis?" he inquired.

"I think she has a headache," replied Kathleen, looking at Duane.

"Could I see her?" he asked.

Kathleen said gently that Geraldine did not feel like seeing anybody at
that time. A moment later, in obedience to Scott's persistent clamouring
for scarabs, she went across the lawn with the young master of Roya-Neh,
resigned to the inevitable in the shape of two-horned scarabs or
black-billed cuckoos.

It had always been so with her; it would always be so. Long ago the
Seagrave twins had demanded all she had to give; now, if Geraldine asked
less, Scott exacted double. And she gave--how happily, only her Maker
and her conscience knew.

Duane was still reading--or he had all the appearance of reading--when
Sylvia lifted her head from her hand and turned around with an effort
that cost her what colour had remained under the transparent skin of her
oval face.

"Duane," she said, "it occurred to me just now that you might have
really mistaken what I said and did the other night." She hesitated,
nerving herself to encounter his eyes, lifted and levelled across the
top of his paper at her.

He waited; she retained enough self-command to continue with an effort
at lightness:

"Of course it was all carnival fun--my pretending to mistake you for Mr.
Dysart. You understood it, didn't you?"

"Why, of course," he said, smiling.

She went on: "I--don't exactly remember what I said--I was trying to
mystify you. But it occurred to me that perhaps it was rather imprudent
to pretend to be on--on such impossible terms with Mr. Dysart----"

There was something too painful in her effort for him to endure. He said
laughingly, not looking at her:

"Oh, I wasn't ass enough to be deceived, Sylvia. Don't worry, little
girl." And he resumed the study of his paper.

Minutes passed--terrible minutes f