lly changed
beneath her look, from the tension and gloom with which he had begun the
scene to a kind of boyish relief--a touch of pleasure--of mischief even.
His high, majestical pretensions vanished away; a light and volatile
mind thought no more of them; and he turned eagerly to another idea.

"Elizabeth, do you know that you have proposed to Anderson?"

"If I have, it was your fault."

"He hasn't said Yes?"

Elizabeth was silent. Anderson came forward--but Philip stopped him
with a gesture.

"He can't say Yes--till I give him back his promise," said the boy,
triumphantly. "Well, George, I do give it you back--on one
condition--that you put off going for a week, and that you come back as
soon as you can. By Jove, I think you owe me that!"

Anderson's difficult smile answered him.

"And now you've got rid of your beastly Conference, you can come in, and
talk business with me to-morrow--next day--every day!" Philip resumed,
"can't he, Elizabeth? If you're going to be my brother, I'll jolly well
get you to tackle the lawyers instead of me--boring old idiots! I
say--I'm going to take it easy now!"

He settled himself in his chair with a long breath, and his eyelids
fell. He was speaking, as they all knew, of the making of his will. Mrs.
Gaddesden stooped piteously and kissed him. Elizabeth's face quivered.
She put her arm round her mother and led her away. Anderson went to
summon Philip's servant.

A little later Anderson again descended the dark staircase, leaving
Philip in high spirits and apparently much better.

In the doorway of the drawing-room, stood a white form. Then the man's
passion, so long dyked and barriered, had its way. He sprang towards
her. She retreated, catching her breath; and in the shadows of the empty
room she sank into his arms. In the crucible of that embrace all things
melted and changed. His hesitations and doubts, all that hampered his
free will and purpose, whether it were the sorrows and humiliations of
the past--or the compunctions and demurs of the present--dropped away
from him, as unworthy not of himself, but of Elizabeth. She had made him
master of herself, and her fate; and he boldly and loyally took up the
part. He had refused to become the mere appanage of her life, because he
was already pledged to that great idea he called his country. She loved
him the more for it; and now he had only to abound in the same sense, in
order to hold and keep the nature which had answered