ne, where hearts were light with the joy
of the moment. The dinner was carefully served, the wine, which in his
solitude he had neglected, stole through his veins with a pleasant
warmth. Brooks felt his nerves relax, the light came back to his eyes
and the colour to his cheeks. Their conversation grew brighter--almost
gay. They both carefully avoided all mention of their work--it was a
holiday. The burden of his too carefully thought out life seemed to
pass away. Brooks felt that his youth was coming to him a little late,
but with delicious freshness.

He smoked a cigarette and sipped his coffee, glancing every now and then
at his companion with approving eyes. For Mary, whose dress was so
seldom a matter of moment to her, chanced to look her best that night.
The delicate pallor of her cheeks under the rich tone of her hair seemed
quite apart from any suggestion of ill-health, her eyes were wonderfully
full and soft, a quaint pearl ornament hung by a little gold chain from
her slender, graceful neck. A sort of dreamy content came over Brooks.
After all, why should he throw himself in despair against the gates of
that other world, outside which he himself had elected to dwell? It was
only madness for him to think of Sybil. While Lord Arranmore lived he
must remain Kingston Brooks--and for Kingston Brooks it seemed that even
friendship with her was forbidden. He could live down those memories.
They were far better crushed. He thought of that moment in Mary's
sitting-room, that one moment of her self-betrayal, and his heart beat
with an unaccustomed force. Why not rob her of the bitterness of that
memory? He looked at the white hand resting for a moment on the table
so close to his, and a sudden impulse came over him to snatch it up, to
feel his loneliness fade away for ever before the new light in her face.

"Let us go and sit on the other side of the lawn," he said, leaning over
towards her. "We can hear the music better."

They found a quiet seat where the music from the main restaurant reached
them, curiously mingled with the jingling of cab bells from Piccadilly.
Brooks leaned over and took her hand. "Mary," he said, "will you marry
me?"

She looked at him as though expecting to find in his face some vague
sign of madness, some clue to words which seemed to her wholly
incomprehensible. But he had all the appearance of being in earnest.
His eyes were serious, his fingers had tightened over hers. She drew a
little a