She brought her broad-brimmed sun-hat from the rack in the hall and silently accompanied him.
It was a beautiful morning, as he had said. The sun shone brilliantly, the blue sky mirrored itself in the blue river, birds sang, flowers bloomed, and the air was sweet with the breath of roses. But for once Irene was indifferent to the sweet influences of nature. She walked along silently by his side, her blue eyes downcast, her face pale, her steps slow and languid.
They paused at last to rest on a pretty garden seat beside the murmuring river. Irene flung herself down wearily.
She, who seldom knew what weakness meant, could barely drag her weary limbs along.
"I am sorry to see you looking so ill to-day," murmured the lover.
She glanced up quickly in his face for some sign of relenting.
Alas, his passionate look of admiration dispelled the sudden, springing hope. Her heart sank heavily again.
"I am ill," she cried. "God only knows what I suffered last night. Are you still relentless in your cruel purpose?"
"You use hard words," he said, flinching under her scorn. "Is it cruel to love you, and wish you for my own?"
"It is cruel to try to force me into compliance with your wishes," she answered, with a passing flash of indignation.