softly.

We drank in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. But afterwards
Arthur raised his glass high above his head.

"To the Princess Isobel!" he cried. "Long life and good luck to her!"

Afterwards there were no more toasts.

* * * * *

Arthur and Allan went their several ways within twenty-four hours of our
farewell dinner. I saw them both off, and I forced them with great
difficulty to share to some small extent in Feurgeres' legacy. Then I
took some rooms near my club in the heart of London, and line for line,
word for word, I re-wrote the whole of the story which I had not dared
to show to Isobel, determined that the one thing I still had which was
part of her body and soul should be the best that my brain and skill
could fashion. So the winter and the early spring passed, and then my
story was published.

CHAPTER XI

A miracle of white daintiness, from the spotless muslin of her gown to
the creamy lace which hung from her parasol. So far as toilette went,
Lady Delahaye was always an artist. Yet my pulses were unmoved, and my
heart unstirred, as she stood under my dark cedar-tree and welcomed me
with all the expression which her tone and eyes could command.

"So you see, Sir Hermit," she murmured, "what happens to those who will
not go to the mountain? Seriously, I hope you are glad to see me."

"Why not?" I answered calmly. "Will you come inside, or shall we sit
here in the shade?"

"Here, by all means," she answered, subsiding gracefully into a wicker
chair.

"You will let me order you some tea?"

She checked my movement towards the house.

"For Heaven's sake, no! I have been paying calls all the afternoon with
Mrs. Jerningham, and you know what that means. She has gone to the Hall
now, and I am to pick her up in half an hour."

"You are staying at Eastford House, then?" I remarked.

"For a few days. Can you guess why?"

"The house parties there have the reputation of being amusing," I
suggested.

She shook her head.

"It was not that. Can you make no better guess?"

"I am a dunce at riddles," I admitted.

"You are a dunce at many things," she replied. "The reason I came was
because I knew that you were living in these parts, and I had a fancy to
see you again."

"You are very good," I remarked.

She looked at me critically.

"You have not changed," she said slowly. "One would almost say that the
life of a recluse agrees with you. You h