ery extraordinary to see the perfect flush of health on her cheeks, to
see the lustre of her coiled black hair, the poise of the head upon
the neck, the grace of the white hands--and to think that it all means
nothing--that it is a picture without a meaning. Yes, it is queer.

But, at any rate, there is always Leonora to cheer you up; I don't want
to sadden you. Her husband is quite an economical person of so normal
a figure that he can get quite a large proportion of his clothes
ready-made. That is the great desideratum of life, and that is the end
of my story. The child is to be brought up as a Romanist.

It suddenly occurs to me that I have forgotten to say how Edward met
his death. You remember that peace had descended upon the house; that
Leonora was quietly triumphant and that Edward said his love for the
girl had been merely a passing phase. Well, one afternoon we were in
the stables together, looking at a new kind of flooring that Edward was
trying in a loose-box. Edward was talking with a good deal of animation
about the necessity of getting the numbers of the Hampshire territorials
up to the proper standard. He was quite sober, quite quiet, his skin
was clear-coloured; his hair was golden and perfectly brushed; the
level brick-dust red of his complexion went clean up to the rims of his
eyelids; his eyes were porcelain blue and they regarded me frankly and
directly. His face was perfectly expressionless; his voice was deep and
rough. He stood well back upon his legs and said:

"We ought to get them up to two thousand three hundred and fifty."
A stable-boy brought him a telegram and went away. He opened it
negligently, regarded it without emotion, and, in complete silence,
handed it to me. On the pinkish paper in a sprawled handwriting I read:
"Safe Brindisi. Having rattling good time. Nancy."

Well, Edward was the English gentleman; but he was also, to the last,
a sentimentalist, whose mind was compounded of indifferent poems and
novels. He just looked up to the roof of the stable, as if he were
looking to Heaven, and whispered something that I did not catch.

Then he put two fingers into the waistcoat pocket of his grey, frieze
suit; they came out with a little neat pen-knife--quite a small
pen-knife. He said to me:

"You might just take that wire to Leonora." And he looked at me with a
direct, challenging, brow-beating glare. I guess he could see in my eyes
that I didn't intend to hinder him. Why should