, positive,
dazzling the man of exclusive clubs; was reminded of young Mrs.
Pierson, with whom he shook hands, of young Mr. Pierson, to whom he
nodded and said "Ha!" and finally of Francis Lingen. "Ha, Lingen, you
here!" Francis shivered. That seemed to him to ring a knell. Since
when had he been Lingen to James. Since this moment. Now why had James
cold-shouldered him? Was it possible that he had noticed too much
devotion?... And if he had, was it not certain that she must have
noticed it? He stopped midway of the stairs, and passers-by may have
thought he was looking for a dropt sixpence. Not at all. The earth
seemed to be heaving beneath his feet. But a wave of courage surged up
through him. Pooh! no woman yet ever disregarded the homage of a man.
He would send some roses to-morrow, without a card. She would
understand. And so it went on. Wagner came back to his own.

On this occasion, after this second great adventure, Lucy had no
conflict with fate. Thankfully she took the gift of the God; she took
it as final, as a thing complete in itself, a thing most beautiful,
most touching, most honourable to giver and recipient. It revived all
her warmth of feeling, but this time without a bitter lees to the
dram. And she was immensely the better for it. She felt in charity
with all the world, her attitude to James was one of clear sight. Oh,
now she understood him through and through. She would await the
fulness of time; sufficient for the day was the light of the day.

She was happier than she had been for many years. Half-term was
approaching, when she would be allowed to go down and see Lancelot; in
these days she felt Spring in the air. February can be kind to us, and
show a golden threshold to March. She had a letter from Mabel telling
her of Mr. Urquhart's feats in the hunting field.... "He's quite mad,
I think, and mostly talks about you and Lancelot. He calls you
Proserpine. As for his riding, my dear, it curdles the blood. He
doesn't ride, he drives; sits well back, and accelerates on the near
side. He brought his own horses, luckily for ours and his neck. They
seem to understand it. He hunted every day but one; and then he rushed
up to town to keep some appointment and came back to a very late
dinner, driving himself in his motor. He is a tempestuous person, but
can be very grave when he likes. He talked beautifully one
evening--mostly about you." Lucy's eyes smiled wisely over this
letter. She liked to think th