have a house in London and in the country, and entertain us all

splendidly. She's so eminently fitted for it. She has such hosts
of distinguished friends! And then - this instead! . . . My heart

really aches."
Her well-bred if anxiouswhisper was covered by the voice of

professor Moorsom discoursing subtly down the short length of the
dinner table on the Impermanency of the Measurable to his venerable

disciple. It might have been a chapter in a new and popular book
of Moorsonian philosophy. Patriarchal and delighted, old Dunster

leaned forward a little, his eyes shining youthfully, two spots of
colour at the roots of his white beard; and Renouard, glancing at

the senile excitement, recalled the words heard on those subtle
lips, adopted their scorn for his own, saw their truth before this

man ready to be amused by the side of the grave. Yes!
Intellectual debauchery in the froth of existence! Froth and

fraud!
On the same side of the table Miss Moorsom never once looked

towards her father, all her grace as if frozen, her red lips
compressed, the faintest rosiness under her dazzling complexion,

her black eyes burning motionless, and the very coppery gleams of
light lying still on the waves and undulation of her hair.

Renouard fancied himself overturning the table, smashing crystal
and china, treading fruit and flowers under foot, seizing her in

his arms, carrying her off in a tumult of shrieks from all these
people, a silent frightened mortal, into some profoundretreat as

in the age of Cavern men. Suddenly everybody got up, and he
hastened to rise too, finding himself out of breath and quite

unsteady on his feet.
On the terrace the philosopher, after lighting a cigar, slipped his

hand condescendingly under his "dear young friend's" arm. Renouard
regarded him now with the profoundest mistrust. But the great man

seemed really to have a liking for his young friend - one of those
mysterious sympathies, disregarding the differences of age and

position, which in this case might have been explained by the
failure of philosophy to meet a very real worry of a practical

kind.
After a turn or two and some casual talk the professor said

suddenly: "My late son was in your school - do you know? I can
imagine that had he lived and you had ever met you would have

understood each other. He too was inclined to action."
He sighed, then, shaking off the mournful thought and with a nod at

the dusky part of the terrace where the dress of his daughter made
a luminous stain: "I really wish you would drop in that quarter a

few sensible, discouraging words."
Renouard disengaged himself from that most perfidious of men under

the pretence of astonishment, and stepping back a pace -
"Surely you are making fun of me, Professor Moorsom," he said with

a low laugh, which was really a sound of rage.
"My dear young friend! It's no subject for jokes, to me. . . You

don't seem to have any notion of your prestige," he added, walking
away towards the chairs.

"Humbug!" thought Renouard, standing still and looking after him.
"And yet! And yet! What if it were true?"

He advanced then towards Miss Moorsom. Posed on the seat on which
they had first spoken to each other, it was her turn to watch him

coming on. But many of the windows were not lighted that evening.
It was dark over there. She appeared to him luminous in her clear

dress, a figure without shape, a face without features, awaiting
his approach, till he got quite near to her, sat down, and they had

exchanged a few insignificant words. Gradually she came out like a
magic painting of charm, fascination, and desire, glowing

mysteriously on the dark background. Something imperceptible in
the lines of her attitude, in the modulations of her voice, seemed

to soften that suggestion of calm unconscious pride which enveloped
her always like a mantle. He, sensitive like a bond slave to the

moods of the master, was moved by the subtle relenting of her grace
to an infinitetenderness. He fought down the impulse to seize her

by the hand, lead her down into the garden away under the big
trees, and throw himself at her feet uttering words of love. His

emotion was so strong that he had to cough slightly, and not
knowing what to talk to her about he began to tell her of his

mother and sisters. All the family were coming to London to live
there, for some little time at least.

"I hope you will go and tell them something of me. Something
seen," he said pressingly.

By this miserable subterfuge, like a man about to part with his
life, he hoped to make her remember him a little longer.

"Certainly," she said. "I'll be glad to call when I get back. But
that 'when' may be a long time."

He heard a light sigh. A cruel jealouscuriosity made him ask -
"Are you growing weary, Miss Moorsom?"

A silence fell on his low spoken question.
"Do you mean heart-weary?" sounded Miss Moorsom's voice. "You

don't know me, I see."
"Ah! Never despair," he muttered.

"This, Mr. Renouard, is a work of reparation. I stand for truth
here. I can't think of myself."

He could have taken her by the throat for every word seemed an
insult to his passion; but he only said -

"I never doubted the - the - nobility of your purpose."
"And to hear the word wearinesspronounced in this connection

surprises me. And from a man too who, I understand, has never
counted the cost."

"You are pleased to tease me," he said, directly he had recovered
his voice and had mastered his anger. It was as if Professor

Moorsom had dropped poison in his ear which was spreading now and
tainting his passion, his very jealousy. He mistrusted every word

that came from those lips on which his life hung. "How can you
know anything of men who do not count the cost?" he asked in his

gentlest tones.
"From hearsay - a little."

"Well, I assure you they are like the others, subject to suffering,
victims of spells. . . ."

"One of them, at least, speaks very strangely."
She dismissed the subject after a short silence. "Mr. Renouard, I

had a disappointment this morning. This mail brought me a letter
from the widow of the old butler - you know. I expected to learn

that she had heard from - from here. But no. No letter arrived
home since we left."

Her voice was calm. His jealousy couldn't stand much more of this
sort of talk; but he was glad that nothing had turned up to help

the search; glad blindly, unreasonably - only because it would keep
her longer in his sight - since she wouldn't give up.

"I am too near her," he thought, moving a little further on the
seat. He was afraid in the revulsion of feeling of flinging

himself on her hands, which were lying on her lap, and covering
them with kisses. He was afraid. Nothing, nothing could shake

that spell - not if she were ever so false, stupid, or degraded.
She was fate itself. The extent of his misfortune plunged him in

such a stupor that he failed at first to hear the sound of voices
and footsteps inside the drawing-room. Willie had come home - and

the Editor was with him.
They burst out on the terrace babbling noisily, and then pulling

themselves together stood still, surprising - and as if themselves
surprised.

CHAPTER VII
They had been feasting a poet from the bush, the latest discovery

of the Editor. Such discoveries were the business, the vocation,
the pride and delight of the only apostle of letters in the

hemisphere, the solitarypatron of culture, the Slave of the Lamp -
as he subscribed himself at the bottom of the weeklyliterary page

of his paper. He had had no difficulty in persuading the virtuous
Willie (who had festive instincts) to help in the good work, and