he still possessed his old faculty for implying so
much more than was contained in the actual words he spoke.

"Most people would be content with the success you've gained," she
answered steadily.

"Most people--yes. But to gain the gold and miss . . . the
rainbow!--_A quoi bon_?"

His voice vibrated. This sudden meeting with Nan was trying him hard.

There had been two genuine things in the man's life--his love for Nan
and his love of his art. He had thrust the first deliberately aside so
that he might not be handicapped in the second, and now that the race
was won and success assured he was face to face with the realisation of
the price that must be paid. Nan was out of his reach for ever.
Standing here at his side with all her old elusive charm--out of his
reach!

"What did you mean"--she was speaking to him again--"by telling Penny
that you expected to see me soon--before she would?"

"Ah, that's my news. Of course, when I wrote, I thought you were still
down in Cornwall, with the Trenbys. I'd no idea you were coming up to
town just now."

"I'm up unexpectedly," murmured Nan. "Well? What then?"

He smiled, as though enjoying his secret.

"Isn't Burnham Court somewhere in your direction?"

"Yes. It's about midway between the Hall and Mallow Court. It
belonged to a Sir Robert Burnham who's just died. Why do you ask?"

"Because Burnham was my godfather. The old chap disapproved of me
strongly at one time--thought painting pictures a fool's job. But
since luck came my way, his opinion apparently altered, and when he
died he left me all his property--Burnham Court included."

"Burnham Court!" exclaimed Nan in astonishment.

"Yes. Droll, isn't it? So I thought of coming down some time this
spring and seeing how it feels to be a land-owner. My wife is taking a
trip to the States then--to visit some friends."

"How nice!" Nan's exclamation was quite spontaneous. It would be nice
to have another of her own kind--one of her mental kith and kin--near
at hand after she was married.

"I shan't be down there all the time, of course, but for week-ends and
so on--in the intervals between transferring commonplace faces, and
still more frequently commonplace souls, to canvas." He paused, then
asked suddenly: "So you're glad, Nan?"

"Of course I am," she answered heartily. "It will be like old times."

"Unfortunately, old times never--come back," he said shortly.

And then a quaint, drumming n