A great restlessness began to possess her. She felt she must know what
had been happening during her absence from the field. She must know if
Rose had succeeded in adding yet another to her long list of devoted
admirers. She felt that if this were so, she could never, never forgive
her. But it was not possible. She was sure--she was sure it was not
possible.

Sir Eustace was not the man to grovel at any woman's feet. She recalled
the arrogance of his demeanour even in his moments of greatest
tenderness. She recalled the magnetic force of his personality, his
overwhelming mastery. She recalled the strong holding of his arms,
thrilled yet again to the burning intensity of his kisses.

No, no! He had never stooped to become one of Rose's adorers. If
he had ever flirted with her, he had done it out of boredom. She was
beautiful--ah yes, Rose was beautiful; but Dinah was quite convinced
she had no brains. And Eustace would never seriously consider a woman
without brains.

Seriously! But then had he ever taken her into his serious consideration
either? Had he not rather been at pains to make her understand that what
had passed between them was no more than a game to which no serious
consequences were attached? She had caught his fancy, his passing fancy,
and now was not her turn over? Had he not laughed and gone his way?

She chafed terribly at the thought, and ever the longing to see him again
grew within her till she did not know how to hide it from those about
her.

In the evening her temperature rose, and the doctor was dissatisfied with