spoken of it
to several people--to partners at dances and others. She attributed it
to approaching old age.

"I will write and tell him," said Jack quietly.

Lady Cantourne raised her eyebrows slightly, but made no spoken comment.

"I think," she said, after a little pause, "that Millicent ought to
write too."

Millicent shuddered prettily. She was dimly conscious that her
handwriting--of an exaggerated size, executed with a special
broad-pointed pen purchasable in only one shop in Regent Street--was not
likely to meet with his approval. A letter written thus--two words to a
line--on note-paper that would have been vulgar had it not been so very
novel, was sure to incur prejudice before it was fully unfolded by a
stuffy, old-fashioned person.

"I will try," she said; "but you know, auntie dear, I CANNOT write
a long explanatory letter. There never seems to be time, does there?
Besides, I am afraid Sir John disapproves of me. I don't know why; I'm
sure I have tried"--which was perfectly true.

Even funerals and lovers must bow to meal-times, and Jack Meredith was
not the man to outstay his welcome. He saw Lady Cantourne glance at the
clock. Clever as she was, she could not do it without being seen by him.

So he took his leave, and Millicent went to the head of the stairs with
him.

He refused the pressing invitation of a hansom-cabman, and proceeded to
walk leisurely home to his rooms. Perhaps he was wondering why his heart
was not brimming over with joy. The human heart has a singular way
of seeing farther than its astute friend and coadjutor, the brain. It
sometimes refuses to be filled with glee, when outward circumstances
most distinctly demand that state. And at other times, when outward
things are strong, not to say opaque, the heart is joyful, and we know
not why.

Jack Meredith knew that he was the luckiest man in London. He was rich,
in good health, and he was engaged to be married to Millicent Chyne,
the acknowledged belle of his circle. She had in no way changed. She was
just as pretty, as fascinating, as gay as ever; and something told him
that she loved him--something which had not been there before he went
away, something that had come when the overweening vanity of youth went.
And it was just this knowledge to which he clung with a nervous mental
grip. He did not feel elated as he should; he was aware of that, and
he could not account for it. But Millicent loved him, so it must be all
right. H