know, sometimes, and gruff and morose, but so is any man who spends his life fretting for the thing he can't get. I only ask you, dear, to be fair. I have never said an unkind word about the man for whom you have cared so long. I only say now that you belong to me. I am not a bit foolish--I am not even jealous--only your time has come, your time for that little home in the country, a husband always with you, and, I hope to Heaven, children."

She took his face between her hands and kissed him. He understood her so perfectly that, as she drew her lips away, he rose and stood on the hearthrug, a conqueror yet humble.

"You won't mind," she begged, "if I choose my own time? It may be very soon, it may be a little time. You will leave it to me, and you will trust me. From to-night, of course--"

She hesitated, but his gesture was sufficient. She knew that she was understood.

"You have made me the happiest man in the world," he said. "I can't stop a moment longer--I should simply say extravagant things. And I know how you feel. It isn't quite time for them yet. But you'll send for me?"

"Of course!"

"And about your visit to Mandeleys?" he asked. "I shan't begin to be busy again for another fortnight."

She hesitated.

"Somehow," she confessed, "it seems a little different now."

It needn't," he replied. "I am content with what I have."

She glanced at the calendar.

"Tuesday?" she suggested.

"Tuesday would suit me admirably," he assented.

She let him out herself, and he kissed her fingers. He was never quite sure whether he walked down the stairs or whether he rang for the lift. He was never quite sure whether he looked for a taxi or decided to walk. He passed over the bridge, and the lights reflected in the dark waters below seemed suddenly like jewels. He made his way to his club because of the sheer impossibility of sleep. He stood on the threshold of the reading room and looked in at the little group of semi-somnolent men. In his way he was popular, and 

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