have some work. My friends think I
should have some great aim in life, with a capital A. But I was born a
vagabond, and a vagabond I shall probably die."

"I don't know anybody in South America," said Blanche, languidly. "There
were two girls here last season, but they didn't wear stays in the
house, and their white frocks never were properly done up. If you go to
South America, you must write to me."

"I will. Can you tell me the name of this flower which I found in your
greenhouse. It looks much like a California blossom."

"Perhaps it is. Father bought it of a half-crazy old man who came here
one day. Do you know him?"

Islington laughed. "I am afraid not. But let me present this in a less
business-like fashion."

"Thank you. Remind me to give you one in return before you go,--or will
you choose yourself?"

They had both risen as by a common instinct.

"Good by."

The cool flower-like hand lay in his for an instant.

"Will you oblige me by putting aside that leaf a moment before I go?"

"But my eyes are red, and I look like a perfect fright."

Yet, after a long pause, the leaf fluttered down, and a pair of very
beautiful but withal very clear and critical eyes met his. Islington was
constrained to look away. When he turned again, she was gone.

"Mister Hislington,--sir!"

It was Chalker, the English groom, out of breath with running.

"Seein' you alone, sir,--beg your pardon, sir,--but there's a person--"

"A person! what the devil do you mean? Speak English--no, damn it, I
mean don't," said Islington, snappishly.

"I sed a person, sir. Beg pardon--no offence--but not a gent, sir. In
the lib'ry."

A little amused even through the utter dissatisfaction with himself
and vague loneliness that had suddenly come upon him, Islington, as he
walked toward the lodge, asked, "Why isn't he a gent?

"No gent--beggin' your pardin, sir--'ud guy a man in sarvis, sir. Takes
me 'ands so, sir, as I sits in the rumble at the gate, and puts 'em
downd so, sir, and sez, 'Put 'em in your pocket, young man,--or is it
a road agint you expects to see, that you 'olds hup your 'ands, hand
crosses 'em like to that,' sez he. ''Old 'ard,' sez he, 'on the short
curves, or you'll bust your precious crust,' sez he. And hasks for you,
sir. This way, sir."

They entered the lodge. Islington hurried down the long Gothic hall, and
opened the library door.

In an arm-chair, in the centre of the room, a man sat apparently
contempl