apses were only attributed to
natural embarrassment. What she and Miss Dane said she never remembered;
what the other pair talked of she never forgot. The first words she
caught were her husband's.

"You see I have begun to live for myself, Adam."

"I also see that it agrees with you excellently."

"Better than with you, for you are not looking like your old self,
though June made you happy, I hope?"

"If freedom is happiness it did."

"Are you still alone?"

"More so than ever."

Sylvia lost the next words, for a look showed her Moor's hand on Adam's
shoulder, and that for the first time within her memory Warwick did not
meet his friend's glance with one as open, but bent his eyes upon the
ground, while his hand went to and fro across his lips as if to steady
them. It was a gesture she remembered well, for though self-control
could keep the eye clear, the voice firm, that half-hidden mouth of his
sometimes rebelled and grew tremulous as a woman's. The sight and the
answer set her heart beating with the thought, "Why has he come?" The
repetition of a question by Miss Dane recalled her from a dangerous
memory, and when that friendly lady entered upon another long sentence
to relieve her young hostess, she heard Moor say--

"You have had too much solitude, Adam; I am sure of it, for no man can
live long alone and not get the uncanny look you have. What have you
been at?"

"Fighting the old fight with this unruly self of mine, and getting ready
for another tussle with the Adversary, in whatever shape he may appear."

"And now you are come to your friend for the social solace which the
haughtiest heart hungers for when most alone. You shall have it. Stay
with us, Adam, and remember that whatever changes come to me my home is
always yours."

"I know it, Geoffrey. I wanted to see your happiness before I go away
again, and should like to stay with you a day or so if you are sure
that--that she would like it."

Moor laughed and pulled a lock of the brown mane, as if to tease the
lion into a display of the spirit he seemed to have lost.

"How shy you are of speaking the new name! 'She' will like it, I assure
you, for she makes my friends hers. Sylvia, come here, and tell Adam he
is welcome; he dares to doubt it. Come and talk over old times, while I
do the same with Faith."

She went, trembling inwardly, but outwardly composed, for she took
refuge in one of those commonplace acts which in such moments we gladly