"
Suddenly he became angry, almost excited. His blood pounded in his
veins. Was this man, Mallow, to come between his and her fate always,
come into his problem at the most critical moment? "God in heaven!" he
said in a burst of passion, "is this a land of the British Empire or is
it not? Why should that man break in on every crisis? Why should he do
this or that--say yea or nay, give or take away! He is the king's
representative, but he is bound by laws as rigid as any that bind you or
me. What has he to do with your daughter or what concerns her? Is there
not enough trouble in the world without bringing in Lord Mallow?
If he--"
He stopped short, for he saw coming from the summerhouse, Sheila with his
paper in her hand. She walked slowly and with dignity. She carried her
head high and firmly, and the skin of her face was shining with light
as she came on. Dyck noticed how her wide skirts flicked against the
flowers that bordered the path, and how her feet seemed scarcely to touch
the ground as she walked--a spirit, a regnant spirit of summer she
seemed. But in her face there was no summer, there was only autumn and
winter, only the bright frost of purpose.
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