Mills with affectionate gentleness.
He hesitated a moment. "Dona Rita went away yesterday," he said softly.

"Went away? Why?" asked Monsieur George.

"Because, I am thankful to say, your life is no longer in danger. And I
have told you that she is gone because, strange as it may seem, I believe
you can stand this news better now than later when you get stronger."

It must be believed that Mills was right. Monsieur George fell asleep
before he could feel any pang at that intelligence. A sort of confused
surprise was in his mind but nothing else, and then his eyes closed. The
awakening was another matter. But that, too, Mills had foreseen. For
days he attended the bedside patiently letting the man in the bed talk to
him of Dona Rita but saying little himself; till one day he was asked
pointedly whether she had ever talked to him openly. And then he said
that she had, on more than one occasion. "She told me amongst other
things," Mills said, "if this is any satisfaction to you to know, that
till she met you she knew nothing of love. That you were to her in more
senses than one a complete revelation."

"And then she went away. Ran away from the revelation," said the man in
the bed bitterly.

"What's the good of being angry?" remonstrated Mills, gently. "You know
that this world is not a world for lovers, not even for such lovers as
you two who have nothing to do with the world as it is. No, a world of
lovers would be impossible. It would be a mere ruin of lives which seem
to be meant for something else. What this something is, I don't know;
and I am certain," he said with playful compassion, "that she and you
will never find out."

A few days later they were again talking of Dona Rita Mills said:

"Before she left the house she gave me that arrow she used to wear in her
hair to hand over to you as a keepsake and also to prevent you, she said,
from dreaming of her. This message sounds rather cryptic."

"Oh, I understand perfectly," said Monsieur George. "Don't give me the
thing now. Leave it somewhere where I can find it some day when I am
alone. But when you write to her you may tell her that now at
last--surer than Mr. Blunt's bullet--the arrow has found its mark. There
will be no more dreaming. Tell her. She will understand."

"I don't even know where she is," murmured Mills.

"No, but her man of affairs knows. . . . Tell me, Mills, what will become
of her?"

"She will be wasted," said