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took place.
    It was then, for a fleeting second, that Rodney had regretted that he had been so precipitate. There had been no reluctance on Sir Harry’s part to give his daughter’s hand to a man of whom he knew nothing save that he was the god-son of an old friend. Rodney had a sense of disappointment that it had not been difficult. He would like to have fought for Phillida as he had fought all his life for something he desired, and while he told himself he had still to gain her love, he was conscious of feeling cheated and also of being suspicious of Sir Harry’s motives, whereas before he had believed him to be overwhelmingly generous.
    “Breakfast and Phillida!” he repeated Lizbeth’s words to himself now as he skirted the lawn and came through the rose garden on to the terrace of the house. Why had Lizbeth said just those words? There had been a sting in them, he was well aware of that, and even as he wondered, the woman of whom he was thinking came through the open door of the house across the terrace to his side.
    Phillida was looking almost lovelier this morning than she had looked the night before. Her ruff was starched stiffly behind her fair hair and even her farthingale detracted nothing from the grace of her movements.
    “You are up early, Mister Hawkhurst,” she said softly as Rodney bowed before her. “I saw you from my bedroom window and hurried so that we could speak together before the others appeared.”
    “You wished to speak to me alone?” Roger asked, and his tone was caressing.
    Her skin was flawless in the sunshine. She turned her blue eyes upon him.
    “Yes,” she replied, “there is something I would ask of you.”
    “Tell me what it is,” Rodney enquired, “and I promise to give you anything you ask of me – if it is within my power.”
    Phillida looked away from him across the garden to the park.
    “My father spoke of our marriage last night,” she said nervously. “It is just that I beg of you that it should not be too precipitate.” Her tone was quite expressionless and yet Rodney felt chilled.
    “There is no question of it being soon,” he replied. “I thought you understood that first I am going to sea. Your father has interests in my ship and I believe that what he has entrusted to me I shall be able to return a thousand fold. It is only when I return that we can be married.”
    Phillida’s face did not alter and yet he knew that some of the tenseness had left her body and she was relieved.
    “I did not understand,” she said quietly.
    Rodney took a step nearer to her.
    “Phillida, you must not be afraid of me,” he said, “I will teach you to love me. I will make you happy. I swear it.”
    “Thank you.”
    She did not move away from him and yet he felt as if she had withdrawn herself to where he could not touch her.
    “God’s light, but you are so exquisite,” he exclaimed. “I never dreamed of such beauty. I long for you, Phillida. Will you think of me when I am away from you at sea?”
    She looked at him then – a glance which told him nothing, but which somehow managed to make his words sound empty.
    “I shall think of you,” she answered, as if she were a child repeating parrot-wise a lesson.
    Rodney stood looking at her. He felt suddenly helpless. He longed above all things to take her in his arms, to kiss her as he had kissed so many women before, to wake within her a passion equal to his own, to feel the flame flickering within himself ignite a flame within her. And yet her very beauty, the gold and white of her, made her seem inviolate. There was a purity about her that he had never met before and before which he stood abashed.
    “I love you,” he said and felt the words were utterly meaningless and lacking in conviction.
    “When are you going away?” Phillida asked.
    “Tomorrow!” At the thought of parting from her Rodney laid his hand on her arm. “I must see you alone,” he said. “Where can we meet in the garden or the house where no