rkness; but a thousand golden points of fire mapped out
the lines of the Embankment and the long curves of the distant bridges.
The infrequent sounds that could be heard were strangely distinct, even
when they were faint and remote. There was a slight rustling of wind in
the trees below the window.

But the night and the silence brought him neither repose nor counsel. A
multitude of bewildering, audacious hopes and distracting fears strove
for mastery in his mind, upsetting altogether the calm and cool judgment
on which he prided himself. His was not a nature to harbor illusions; he
had a hard way of looking at things; and yet--and yet--might not this
chance speech of Lord Evelyn have been something more than a bit of
good-humored raillery? Lord Evelyn was Natalie's intimate friend; he
knew all her surroundings; he was a quick observer; he was likely to
know if this thing was possible. But, on the other hand, how was it
possible that so beautiful a creature, in the perfect flower of her
youth, should be without a lover? He forced himself to remember that she
and her father seemed to see no society at all. Perhaps she was too
useful to him, and he would not have her entangle herself with many
friends. Perhaps they had led too nomadic a life. But even in hotels
abroad, how could she have avoided the admiration she was sure to evoke?
And in Florence, mayhap, or Mentone, or Madrid; and here he began to
conjure up a host of possible rivals, all foreigners, of course, and all
equally detestable, and to draw pictures for him of _tables d'hote_,
with always the one beautiful figure there, unconscious, gentle, silent,
but drawing to her all men's eyes.

There was but the one way of putting an end to this maddening
uncertainty. He dared not claim an interview with her; she might be
afraid of implying too much by granting it; various considerations might
dictate a refusal. But he could write; and, in point of fact,
writing-materials were on the table. Again and again he had sat down and
taken the pen in his hand, only to get up as often and go and stare out
into the yellow glare of the night. For an instant his shadow would fall
on the foliage of the trees below, and then pass away again like a
ghost.

At two-and-twenty love is reckless, and glib of speech; it takes little
heed of the future; the light straw-flame, for however short a period,
leaps up merrily enough. But at two-and-thirty it is more alive to
consequences; it is