eld such queer glowing tints in its depths when
sunlight fell upon it. One was uncomfortable and embarrassed and
Briarean-handed in her presence, but with her absence came the
overwhelming desire of seeing her again.

After a little, it was quite understood that one was in love with Anne
Willoughby....

It was a matter of minor importance that her father was the wealthiest
man in Fairhaven, and that one's mother was poor. One would go away into
foreign lands after a while, and come back with a great deal of
money,--lakes of rupees and pieces of eight, probably. It was very
simple.

But Anne's father had taken an unreasonable view of the matter, and
carried Anne off to a terrible aunt, who returned one's letters
unopened. That was the end of Anne Willoughby.

Then, after an interval--during which one fell in and out of love
assiduously, and had upon the whole a pleasant time,--Anne Charteris had
come to Lichfield. One had found that time had merely added poise and
self-possession and a certain opulence to the beauty which had caused
one's voice to play fantastic tricks in conference with Anne
Willoughby,--ancient, unforgotten conferences, wherein one had pointed
out the many respects in which she differed from all other women, and
the perfect feasibility of marrying on nothing a year.

Much as one loved Patricia, and great as was one's happiness, men did
not love as boys did, after all....

"'Ah, Boy, it is a dream for life too high,'" said Colonel Musgrave, in
his soul. "And now let's think of something sensible. Let's think about
the present political crisis, and what to give the groomsmen, and how
much six times seven is. Meanwhile, you are not the fellow in _Aux
Italiens_, you know; you are not bothered by the faint, sweet smell of
any foolish jasmine-flower, you understand, or by any equally foolish
hankerings after your lost youth. You are simply a commonplace,
every-day sort of man, not thoroughly hardened as yet to being engaged,
and you are feeling a bit pulled down to-night, because your liver or
something is out of sorts."

Upon reflection, Colonel Musgrave was quite sure that he was happy; and
that it was only his liver or something which was upset. But, at all
events, the colonel's besetting infirmity was always to shrink from
making changes; instinctively he balked against commission of any action
which would alter his relations with accustomed circumstances or
persons. It was very like Rudolph Mus