"And yet you are not going to the ball, Gabrielle, eh?" laughed the old
man mischievously.

"Now come, dad," the girl exclaimed, colouring slightly, "you're really
too bad! I thought you had promised me not to mention him again."

"So I did, dear; I--I quite forgot," replied Sir Henry apologetically.
"Forgive me. You are now your own mistress. If you prefer to stay away
from Connachan, then do so by all means. Only, make a proper excuse to
your mother; otherwise she will be annoyed."

"I think not, dear," his daughter replied in a meaning tone. "If I
remain at home she'll be rather glad than otherwise."

"Why?" inquired the old man quickly.

The girl hesitated. She saw instantly that her remark was an unfortunate
one. "Well," she said rather lamely, "because my absence will relieve
her of the responsibility of acting as chaperon."

What else could she say? How could she tell her father--the kindly but
afflicted man to whom she was devoted--the bitter truth? His lonely,
dismal life was surely sufficiently hard to bear without the extra
burden of suspicion, of enforced inactivity, of fierce hatred, and of
bitter regret. So she slowly disengaged her hand, kissed him again, and
with an excuse that she had the menus to write for the dinner-table,
went out, leaving him alone.

When the door had closed a great sigh sounded through the long,