which he meant to tell it. But in a few hours now he would be
in Chicago, and doubts assailed him. His conscience, always very
sensitive, was not at ease. He was uncertain that he had done all that
was possible, it was on his honour to do much more than the possible,
and the thought was disturbing that, in a matter which so nearly touched
his own interest, he had allowed his interest to prevail over his
quixotry. Self-sacrifice appealed so keenly to his imagination that the
inability to exercise it gave him a sense of disillusion. He was like
the philanthropist who with altruistic motives builds model dwellings
for the poor and finds that he has made a lucrative investment. He
cannot prevent the satisfaction he feels in the ten per cent which
rewards the bread he had cast upon the waters, but he has an awkward
feeling that it detracts somewhat from the savour of his virtue. Bateman
Hunter knew that his heart was pure, but he was not quite sure how
steadfastly, when he told her his story, he would endure the scrutiny
of Isabel Longstaffe's cool grey eyes. They were far-seeing and wise.
She measured the standards of others by her own meticulous uprightness
and there could be no greater censure than the cold silence with which
she expressed her disapproval of a conduct that did not satisfy her
exacting code. There was no appeal from her judgment, for, having made
up her mind, she never changed it. But Bateman would not have had her
different. He loved not only the beauty of her person, slim and
straight, with the proud carriage of her head, but still more the beauty
of her soul. With her truthfulness, her rigid sense of honour, her
fearless outlook, she seemed to him to collect in herself all that was
most admirable in his countrywomen. But he saw in her something more
than the perfect type of the American girl, he felt that her
exquisiteness was peculiar in a way to her environment, and he was
assured that no city in the world could have produced her but Chicago. A
pang seized him when he remembered that he must deal so bitter a blow to
her pride, and anger flamed up in his heart when he thought of Edward
Barnard.

But at last the train steamed in to Chicago and he exulted when he saw
the long streets of grey houses. He could hardly bear his impatience at
the thought of State and Wabash with their crowded pavements, their
hustling traffic, and their noise. He was at home. And he was glad that
he had been born in the most