e to do about her?'

'Nothing. There is nothing you can possibly do now but leave her alone,'
he answered at once. 'Do you think it is wise to keep the other one
here?'

'Oh yes; why not? I am really going to perfect that scheme for the
working girls soon. Meantime, I think I have got a little disheartened;
I am afraid I am not very brave. I hoped that you would help me in
that.'

She turned to him with a look which no man living could resist.

'My darling, I'll do anything you wish. I'm not half good enough for
you,' he cried, uttering this solemn truth with all sincerity. 'Only
give me the right to be interested in all that interests you, and you'll
find you can make of me what you like.'

Gladys was silent a moment, on her face a strange look. She was
thinking, not of the lover pleading so passionately at her side, but of
one who, while loving her not less dearly, had sufficient manliness and
strength of will to go his way alone--conquering, unassisted,
difficulties which would appear unsurmountable to most men. George
Fordyce, looking at her, wondered at the cloud upon her brow.

'Promise me, my darling, that you won't keep me waiting too long. Surely
three months is long enough for the making of the best trousseau any
woman can want? Won't you promise to come to me in autumn, and let us
have a lovely holiday, coming back in winter to work together in real
earnest?'

She turned her head to him slowly, and her eyes met his with a long,
questioning, half-pathetic look.

'In autumn? That is very soon,' she said. 'But, well, perhaps I will
think about it, only you must let me be till I have made up my mind.
Why, here we are already at home.'

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XLII.

A DISCOVERY.

It was some days before Gladys could summon courage to write to Walter
about his sister. Had she known the consequences of that delay she would
have been profoundly unhappy; it gave Liz the chance, which she took
advantage of, to get clear away from the city.

Through these bright days of the early summer Walter kept plodding on at
his business, but life had lost its charm. He was, indeed, utterly sick
at heart; all incentive to push on seemed to be taken from him, and the
daily round was gone through mechanically, simply because it waited his
attention on every hand. As is often the case when success becomes no
longer an object of concern, it became an assured matter. Everything he
touched seemed to pay him, an