which he had loved all
his days could never be quite the same place to him again.

Andrew roused himself from rather a prolonged silence.

"You were a brick to go, George," he said. "It is more than any one else
in the world would have done for me."

Duncombe laughed a little uneasily. He knocked the ashes from his pipe
and refilled it slowly.

"Andrew," he said, "I don't want to seem a fraud. I dare say that I
might have gone for you alone--but I didn't."

His friend smiled faintly.

"Ah!" he remarked. "I had forgotten your little infatuation. It hasn't
worn off yet, then?"

"No, nor any signs of it," Duncombe answered bluntly. "It's an odd
position for a matter-of-fact person like myself, isn't it? I tell you,
Andrew, I've really tried to care for some of the girls about here. The
place wants a mistress, and I'm the tenth baronet in the direct line.
One's got to think about these things, you know. I've tried hard, and
I've never even come near it."

"It will wear off," Andrew said. "It is a very charming little fancy, a
most delightful bit of sentiment, George, but with nothing behind it it
can't last."

"Perhaps not," Duncombe answered quietly. "All that I know is that it
has shown no signs of wearing off up to now. It was in Paris exactly as
it is here. And I know very well that if I thought it would do her the
least bit of good I would start back to Paris or to the end of the world
to-night."

"I must readjust my views of you, George," his friend said with mild
satire. "I always looked upon you as fair game for the Norfolk dowagers
with their broods of daughters, but I never contemplated your fixing
your affections upon a little piece of paste-board."

"Rot! It is the girl herself," Duncombe declared.

"But you have never seen her."

Duncombe shrugged his shoulders. He said nothing. What was the use?
Never seen her! Had she not found her way into every beautiful place his
life had knowledge of?

"If you had," Andrew murmured--"ah, well, the picture is like her. I
remember when she was a child. She was always fascinating, always
delightful to watch."

Duncombe looked out upon the gardens which he loved, and sighed.

"If only Spencer would send for me to go back to Paris," he said with a
sigh.

Andrew turned his head.

"You can imagine now," he said, "what I have been suffering. The desire
for action sometimes is almost maddening. I think that the man who sits
and waits has the hardest task."