ngular. As the
evening wore on, the probability of Frank's appearance seemed less; and
the Armours began to breathe more freely.

Frank had, however, arrived. He had driven straight from Euston to
Cavendish Square, but, seeing the house lighted up, and guests arriving,
he had a sudden feeling of uncertainty. He ordered the cabman to take
him to his club. There he put himself in evening-dress, and drove back
again to the house. He entered quietly. At the moment the hall was
almost deserted; people were mostly in the ballroom and supper-room.
He paused a moment, biting his moustache as if in perplexity. A strange
timidity came on him. All his old dash and self-possession seemed to
have forsaken him. Presently, seeing a number of people entering the
hall, he made for the staircase, and went hastily up. Mechanically he
went to his own room, and found it lighted. Flowers were set about, and
everything was made ready as for a guest. He sat down, not thinking, but
dazed.

Glancing up, he saw his face in a mirror. It was bronzed, but it looked
rather old and careworn. He shrugged a shoulder at that. Then, in the
mirror, he saw also something else. It startled him so that he sat
perfectly still for a moment looking at it. It was some one laughing at
him over his shoulder--a child! He got to his feet and turned round. On
the table was a very large photograph of a smiling child--with his eyes,
his face. He caught the chair-arm, and stood looking at it a little
wildly. Then he laughed a strange laugh, and the tears leaped to
his eyes. He caught the picture in his hands, and kissed it,--very
foolishly, men not fathers might think,--and read the name beneath,
Richard Joseph Armour; and again, beneath that, the date of birth.
He then put it back on the table and sat looking at it-looking, and
forgetting, and remembering.

Presently, the door opened, and some one entered. It was Marion. She had
seen him pass through the hall; she had then gone and told her father
and mother, to prepare them, and had followed him upstairs. He did not
hear her. She stepped softly forwards. "Frank!" she said--"Frank!" and
laid a hand on his shoulder. He started up and turned his face on her.

Then he caught her hands and kissed her. "Marion!" he said, and he could
say no more. But presently he pointed towards the photograph.

She nodded her head. "Yes, it is your child, Frank. Though, of course,
you don't deserve it.... Frank dear," she added, "I am