caught hers, and there was a look in them from
which he could not escape, even if he had wished to do so. She had
thrown her head back so that the coronet of her glossy hair rested upon
the back of her low seat, and thus, without strain, could look straight
up into his face. He had risen, and was standing by the mantelpiece. A
slow, sweet smile grew upon the perfect face, and the dark eyes became
soft and luminous as though they shone through tears.

In another second it had ended, as she thought that it would end and had
intended that it should end. The great strong man was down--yes, down
on his knees before her, one trembling hand catching at the arm of
her chair, and the other clasping her tapering fingers. There was no
hesitation or awkwardness about him now, the greatness of his long-pent
passion inspired him, and he told her all without let or stop--all that
he had suffered for her sake throughout those lonely years, all his
wretched hopelessness, keeping nothing back.

Much she did not understand; such a passion as this was too deep to
be fathomed by her shallow lines, too soaring for her to net in her
world-straitened imagination. Once or twice even his exalted notions
made her smile: it seemed ridiculous, knowing the world as she did, that
any man should think thus of _any_ woman. Nor, when at length he had
finished, did she attempt an answer, feeling that her strength lay in
silence, for she had a poor case. At least, the only argument that she
used was a purely feminine one, but perfectly effective. She bent her
beautiful face towards him, and he kissed it again and again.

IV

The revulsion of feeling experienced by Bottles as he hurried back to
the Albany to dress for dinner--for he was to dine with his brother at
one of his clubs that night--was so extraordinary and overwhelming that
it took him, figuratively speaking, off his legs. As yet his mind, so
long accustomed to perpetual misfortune in this, the ruling passion of
his life, could not quite grasp his luck. That he should, after all,
have won back his lost Madeline seemed altogether too good to be true.

As it happened, Sir Eustace had asked one or two men to meet him,
amongst them an Under-Secretary for the Colonies, who, having to prepare
for a severe cross-examination in the House upon South African affairs,
had jumped at the opportunity of sucking the brains of a man thoroughly
acquainted with the subject. But the expectant Under-Secreta