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“Miss Grant and I. I thought Rosamund would be wanting a chaperon or a bridesmaid, or something, so I brought her and her bicycle.”

“Always thoughtful,” said Andrew, with something like a laugh.

Presently, strolling along the sea-wall they met the two girls. Rosamund looked radiant. Where was the pale, hollow-eyed darling of last night? The wind that ruffled her brown hair had blown roses into her cheeks.

“Do you forgive me?” whispered Stephen when they met.

“That depends,” she answered.

They all walked on together, and presently Stephen and Constance fell behind.

Then Rosamund spoke.

“You really think I ought to crush my pride, and—and”

Hope laughed in Andrew’s face—laughed and fled—for he looked in the face of Miss Rainham, and there was no sign of yielding in it.

“Yes,” he said almost sullenly.

“That is as much as to say that you were wrong.”

“I—perhaps I was wrong. What does it matter?”