She went dismally away to a bower of laurel at the top of the garden.

Her father followed her.
"It is that Giles Winterborne!" he said, with an upbraiding gaze at her.
"No, it is not; though for that matter you encouraged him once," she said, troubled to the verge of despair.

"It is not Giles, it is Mr.
Fitzpiers." "You've had a tiff--a lovers' tiff--that's all, I suppose "It is some woman--" "Ay, ay; you are jealous.

The old story.

Don't tell me.