t was dated plainly, "October 7,
1869," and contained the acknowledgment of two L10 notes won at ecarte.

"That is the hand," said Pensee. "One could not mistake it."

"Then this is really very serious," said Lord Reckage, with twitching
lips. "The whole story has had all along something of unreality about
it. Robert seems fated to a renunciant career--colourless,
self-annihilating."

"What will you do?" murmured Pensee, with an imploring gesture. "What
will you do?"

"They leave Southampton at three o'clock," said Reckage; "it is now
half-past two. The steamer goes twice a week only. I can send him a
telegram and follow them overland--by way of Calais."

"Then I must go also," said Pensee firmly. "She will need me. I have had
a presentiment of trouble so long that now I feel 'Here it is come at
last.' I cannot be too thankful to God that it isn't worse."

Nothing showed under the innavigable depths of Sara's eyes. She had
moved to the fireplace and stood there holding one small foot to the
blaze.

"Are you cold?" asked her father anxiously.

"I am ice," she said, "ice!"

Reckage joined her and said, under his voice, "You think I ought to go,
don't you?"

This question--given in a half-whisper--seemed to establish a fresh
intimacy between them. It was the renewal of their old friendship on
deeper terms.

"Yes, you must go," she answered; "and, Beauclerk, write to me and tell
me how he bears it."

"He is accustomed to a repressive discipline on these matters. The
philosophic mind, you know, is never quite in health. Probably, he won't
show much feeling."

His gaze seemed to burn into her face. It was as though she had been
walking in an arbour and suddenly, through some rift in the boughs,
found herself exposed to the scorching sun. She felt dominated by a
force stronger than her own nature. A little afraid, she shrank
instinctively away from him, and as she dared not look up, she did not
see the expression of triumph, mingled with other things, which, for a
moment, lit up Lord Reckage's ordinarily inscrutable countenance.
Lately, he had been somewhat depressed by his encounter with refractory
wills. His horse, his colleagues on the Bond of Association, his future
bride, had showed themselves fatiguing, perhaps worthless, certainly
disheartening and independent accessories to his life. Here, at last,
was some one brilliant, stimulating, by no means self-seeking, Quixotic
in enthusiasms.

"Sara," he sa