he silence that supervened was threatening to become more
awkward still, when Violet said suddenly:

"I believe that your heart is in India, Mr. Chermside--anywhere but in
Ottermouth. You always--latterly at least--seem to me to be living in
the past, or, perhaps, in the future. When your yacht is ready for sea,
I suppose that you will lose no time in going back to the East?"

Leslie started, and came back to earth. "If you only knew the price I
paid to get out of India you would not say that," he answered gravely.
"And I am afraid that you are incorrect in your other surmises, Miss
Maynard. I am neither living in a past which has nothing to recommend
it, or in a future which is not alluring. As a matter of fact, I am just
drifting--and revelling in the present."

He did not look at her as he spoke. He was staring straight before him
at a trellis arch groaning under a weight of crimson rambler roses, but
at the suggestion of trouble in his voice the girl swayed nearer to him.

"I wish you would be as frank with me as I am with you," she said. "A
woman's sympathy counts for much sometimes. Forgive me for saying that
you puzzle me, and one isn't puzzled where one isn't interested. You
don't convey the impression of a man with a discreditable career behind
him, and from the accepted accounts of your position your prospects are
assured from a worldly point of view. A month ago I thought--I
hoped--that we were going to be friends. We had begun to exchange
confidences in a mild sort of way. Will you not confide in me now more
fully, and tell me if there is anything in which I can help?"

In that moment, listening to her sweet proffer of womanly aid, Leslie
suffered the most exquisite torture. This was the girl whom he had
lightly condemned to a fate worse than death--a fate which he had
pledged himself to compass by deceitfully gaining her love. He turned
and looked at her, and he knew that the priceless guerdon which he had
played for as a mere counter in a disgraceful game had been won. And now
that it was his--now that he valued it for its own sake more than all
the treasures in the world--he could not take it. His reawakened sense
of honour forbade him to think of such desecration. How could he,
wastrel and pauper, have aspired to this queenly maiden, even if his
soul had not been soiled by the memory of his infamous bargain?

"I am not worthy one passing thought from you--still less to give you my
confidence," he fa