that
he would have wished to see ever full of light and laughter. She was
pale, too, or seemed unusually so in her black dress; but the tragic
death of her guardian, Sir Michael Ferrara, had been a dreadful blow
to this convent-bred girl who had no other kin in the world. A longing
swept into Cairn's heart and set it ablaze; a longing to take all her
sorrows, all her cares, upon his own broad shoulders, to take her and
hold her, shielded from whatever of trouble or menace the future might
bring.

"Have you seen his rooms here?" he asked, trying to speak casually;
but his soul was up in arms against the bare idea of this girl's
entering that perfumed place where abominable and vile things were,
and none of them so vile as the man she trusted, whom she counted a
brother.

"Not yet," she answered, with a sort of childish glee momentarily
lighting her eyes. "Are they _very_ splendid?"

"Very," he answered her, grimly.

"Can't you come in with me for awhile? Only just a little while, then
you can come home to lunch--you and Antony." Her eyes sparkled now.
"Oh, do say yes!"

Knowing what he did know of the man upstairs, he longed to accompany
her; yet, contradictorily, knowing what he did he could not face him
again, could not submit himself to the test of being civil to Antony
Ferrara in the presence of Myra Duquesne.

"Please don't tempt me," he begged, and forced a smile. "I shall find
myself enrolled amongst the seekers of soup-tickets if I _completely_
ignore the claims of my employer upon my time!"

"Oh, what a shame!" she cried.

Their eyes met, and something--something unspoken but cogent--passed
between them; so that for the first time a pretty colour tinted the
girl's cheeks. She suddenly grew embarrassed.

"Good-bye, then," she said, holding out her hand. "Will you lunch with
us to-morrow?"

"Thanks awfully," replied Cairn. "Rather--if it's humanly possible.
I'll ring you up."

He released her hand, and stood watching her as she entered the lift.
When it ascended, he turned and went out to swell the human tide of
Piccadilly. He wondered what his father would think of the girl's
visiting Ferrara. Would he approve? Decidedly the situation was a
delicate one; the wrong kind of interference--the tactless kind--might
merely render it worse. It would be awfully difficult, if not
impossible, to explain to Myra. If an open rupture were to be avoided
(and he had profound faith in his father's acumen), then