his ambition in life to be loved,
and be loved for himself alone. If she would trust him, he would
devote his whole life to making her happy, and to proving how well
founded was the faith she had reposed in him. Vitally important as the
question was, I believe he had never for one moment doubted her. His
nature was too open for that, while she herself, like Caesar's wife, was
of course above suspicion. The fact that she had confessed to him that
her family was prohibited in Russia only served to intensify his
admiration for her truthful qualities. Though he knew nothing of her
history or antecedents, it never for one moment caused him any
uneasiness. He loved her for herself, not for her family. When he
went to bed that night he dreamt of her, and when he rose in the
morning he was, if possible, more in love than before. Fully occupied
as his day usually was, on this occasion he found it more than
difficult to pass the time. He counted the hours--nay, almost the
minutes--until it should be possible for him to set off to the
restaurant. By the midday post a charming little note arrived, signed
Katherine Petrovitch. Browne was in his study when it was brought to
him, and it was with the greatest difficulty he could contain his
impatience until the butler had left the room. The instant he had done
so, however, he tore open the envelope and drew out the contents. The
writing was quaint and quite un-English, but its peculiarities only
served to make it the more charming. It would give Madame Bernstein
and the writer, it said, much pleasure to dine with him that evening.
He read and re-read it, finding a fresh pleasure in it on each
occasion. It carried with it a faint scent which was as intoxicating
as the perfume of the Lotus Blossom.

Had the beautiful Miss Verney, who, it must be confessed, had more than
once written him letters of the most confidential description, guessed
for a single moment that he preferred the tiny sheet he carried in his
coat-pocket to her own epistles, it is certain her feelings would have
been painful in the extreme. The fact remains, however, that Browne
preserved the letter, and, if I know anything of human nature, he has
it still.

CHAPTER VI

The dinner that evening must be counted a distinct success. Browne was
the first to arrive at the rendezvous, and it was not wonderful that he
should have been, considering that he had spent the whole of his day
waiting for that