r. He folded his arms across
his chest and looked out vaguely into the slant of room beyond. The
folding doors were open and on the sideboard he could see a basket
full of peaches, at this season an extravagance denied his own table.
On the mantelshelf to his right hand were some exquisite hot-house
flowers, carelessly crushed into a cracked, cheap little vase, and a
penny packet of stationery and a powder puff in a sprinkling of
chalk.

She stretched out her arms so that her fingers touched him, and he
held them tightly in his own--rings and all.

She was never meant for the life she had chosen!

His heart felt breaking.

The delicate features, the sweet, wistful, childish face, the pathos
in her regretful cry--the past with its load of gall and shame and
misery--which could never be obliterated. Never!

"Why do you look at me like that? I am better. I know I am better. I
thought--I feared--I was going to die; if I had there was no one to
care but--Saidie."

"Do you not think what it would mean to--me?"

The words broke from him against his will.

"To--you, Jack! then you care--still!"

"Care!"

He drew his hand away and walked over to the window. The morning was
breaking: morning in the Strand; and already there was a busy hum
without.

Her eyes followed him wistfully, with a little wonderment in
them--and then the lids fell over them.

"I feel strangely weak--but--so--happy, Jack," she said. Her breath
came more easily and she slept.

Sir John Chetwynd was in his accustomed place at the accustomed hour,
grave, attentive and professional as was his wont; but after his
consulting hours were over, he went back to Cecil Street, leaving
word with Soames where he was to be found, if wanted, prepared for
another night's vigil.

"She seems neither better nor worse," said Saidie, meeting him in the
little sitting-room and carefully pulling to the door behind her.
"She is very, very weak. Is there a chance for her?"

"I am afraid to say--it depends so much on what recuperative power
she has. If the bleeding can be stopped, I shall be more hopeful."

"What is she to do, poor Bella? She will never be able to sing again,
I suppose?"

"Never." He spoke curtly, almost cruelly. Saidie burst into tears.

At that moment came a smart tap at the door.

"Mr. Bolingbroke, Miss," said a voice from without.

"He can't come up." Saidie sprang from her chair. But she was too
late. The handle turned, and a tall, dis