She smiled gratefully and looked up into his face with large, tender eyes. "Sometimes," she said, "beauty makes me want to cry, not to laugh. Last night, in the garden, everything was so lovely, and yet so sad. Don't you think beautiful things are sad sometimes?"—She paused and went on, with less excitement: "When I went in, about ten o'clock, I was so miserable I went in the dining-room to be alone. I was crying and father came in."
"Well?" he whispered, eagerly.
"He wanted to know what was the matter."
"And you told him about Clare's father, I suppose?"
"No," she answered. "Don't be angry," she pleaded, laying a hand on his arm. "I don't know what made me do it—I suppose it was instinct. Anyway, you were going to, soon, even if I hadn't. I—I told father about—us!"
"You did?"
"Yes.
