his temples. A scent as of lavender bushes in the sun, of bean fields in blossom, of meadowsweet among the new-mown hay; something indescribably fresh, an out-of-door breath as of English summer, spread around him, curiously different from the essences of his phials and stills. But Master Simon had no senses, no thought but for the work those busy hands were now performing.

“The right rider, to the right, just half a line?” said 12a voice, repeating his last words in a tranquil tone. “A line—those little streaks on the arms are lines?”

12

Master Simon assented briefly: “Yes.”

The fingers moved.

“Enough, enough!” ordered he. “Now back gently till the needle swings evenly.”

The pulse of the scales, hitherto leaping like that of a frightened heart, first steadied itself into regularity and then slowed down into stillness. The long needle pointed at last to nought. The white hands hovered a second.

“Not another touch!” faintly screamed the old man.

He craned forward, his body again tense; gazed and muttered, wrote and rapidly calculated.

“Yes, yes, yes! Seventy-three to a hundred and twenty-five—I was right—Eureka! The principles of the two are the same. Right! Right!”

Now Simon Rickart, rubbing his hands, turned round delightedly.

13

CHAPTER II A MASS OF SELFISHNESS

A MASS OF SELFISHNESS

Tennyson

“Well, Father?”

Master Simon started. His eyes shot a look of searching inquiry at the young woman who now came round to the side of the high table, and bent down to bring her fresh face to a level with his.

“Ellinor? Not Ellinor, not my daughter...!” he said.

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