ertently letting it protrude.

"Good night, and thank you very much indeed!" Rosamund called after him
with warm cordiality.

"I'm glad you've got back, miss. We were in a way. It's ever so late."

"I got lost in the fog. That dear old man rescued me."

"I'm very thankful, miss, I'm sure."

The girl seemed stiffened with astonishment. She shut the street door
automatically.

"He used to be a chemist once."

"Did he, miss?"

"Yes, quite a successful one too; just off Hanover Square, he told me.
He was going round to get something for his supper when we met."

"Indeed, miss?"

Rosamund went upstairs.

"Yes, poor old man," she said, as she ascended.

Like most people in perfect health Rosamund slept well; but that night
she lay awake. She did not want to sleep. She had something to decide,
something of vital importance to her. Two courses lay open to her. She
might marry Dion Leith, or she might resolve never to marry. Like most
girls she had had dreams, but unlike most girls, she had often dreamed
of a life in which men had no place. She had recently entered upon the
career of a public singer, not because she was obliged to earn money but
because she had a fine voice and a strong temperament, and longed for
self-expression. But she had always believed that her public career
would be a short one. She loved fine music and enjoyed bringing its
message home to people, but she had little or no personal vanity, and
the life of a public performer entailed a great deal which she already
found herself disliking. Recently, too, her successful career had
received a slight check. She had made her festival debut at Burstal in
"Elijah," and no engagements for oratorio had followed upon it. Some
day, while she was still young, she meant to retire, and then----

If she married Dion Leith she would have to give up an old dream. On the
other hand, if she married him, perhaps some day she would be a mother.
She felt certain--she did not know why--that if she did not marry Dion
Leith she would never marry at all.

She thought, she prayed, she thought again. Sometimes in the dark hours
of that night the memory of her sensation of loneliness in the fog
returned to her. Sometimes Mr. Robertson's "Which can I share?" echoed
within her, in the resonant chamber of her soul. He had been very quiet,
but he had made an enormous impression upon her; he had made her hate
egoism much more than she had hated it hitherto.

Even into the