d Joyce speaks again.

"Is there no chance--would it not be possible to get home?" says she, in
a tone that trembles with nervous longing.

"I'm afraid not. I'm just going to see. It is impossible weather for you
to be out in."

"But you----? It is clearing a little, isn't it?" with a despairing
glance out of the window. "If you could manage to get back and tell them
that----"

She is made thoroughly ashamed of her selfishness a moment later.

"But my dear girl, consider! Why should I tempt a severe attack of
inflammation of the lungs by driving ten or twelve miles through this
unrelenting torrent? We are very well out of it here. This
Mrs.--er--Connor--Connolly seems a very respectable person, and is known
to you. I shall tell her to make you as comfortable as her 'limited
liabilities,'" with quite a laugh at his own wit, "will allow."

"Pray tell her nothing. Do not give yourself so much trouble," says
Joyce calmly. "She will do the best she can for me without the
intervention of any one."

"As you will, au revoir!" says he, waving her a graceful farewell for
the moment.

He is not entirely happy in his mind, as he crosses the tiny hall and
makes his way first to the bar and afterward to the open doorway. Like a
cat, he hates rain! To drive back through this turmoil of wind and wet
for twelve long miles to the Court is more than his pleasure-loving
nature can bear to look upon. Yet to remain has its drawbacks, too.

If Miss Maliphant, for example, were to hear of this escapade there
might be trouble there. He has not as yet finally made up his mind to
give inclination the go by and surrender himself to sordid
considerations, but there can be no doubt that the sordid things of this
life have, with some natures, a charm hardly to be rivaled successfully
by mere beauty.

The heiress is attractive in one sense; Joyce equally so in another.
Miss Maliphant's charms are golden--are not Joyce's more golden still?
And yet, to give up Miss Maliphant--to break with her finally--to throw
away deliberately a good L10,000 a year!

He lights his cigar with an untrembling hand, and, having found it
satisfactory, permits his mind to continue its investigations.

Ten thousand pounds a year! A great help to a man; yet he is glad at
this moment that he is free to accept or reject it. Nothing definite has
been said to the heiress--nothing definite to Joyce either. It strikes
him at this moment, as he stands in the dingy doo