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She is clad in a long white dressing-gown, loose, yet clinging, that betrays each curve of her svelte, lissom figure. It is bordered with swansdown, and some rich white lace, that sits high to her neck and falls over her small hands. Her hair is drawn back into a loose knot, that looks as if it would tumble down her back should she shake her head. She is pale, and her eyes are peculiarly large and dark from excitement. They are fixed upon Rodney with a gaze that belies all idea of fear, and her lips are compressed and somewhat dangerous., Her voice falters. Instinctively she looks round for help. She feels deserted,—alone. No one speaks. Sir Nicholas and Violet, who are in the room, are as yet almost too shocked to have command of words; and presently the silence becomes unbearable., "Now, how did you find it out? who told you?" asks Mr. Darling, with careful surprise. "Yes, it is true; I don't seek to deny it. The hopeless passion I entertain for you is dearer to me than any other more successful affection can ever be. I worship a dream,—an idea,—and am happier in my maddest moments than others when most same..