will not do it; I will wait until Leslie comes. She will be
as glad to hear the good news as I am."

His dreams were taking the shape of reality in his mind, and he was
believing all that he wanted to believe.

He turned to look at a picture painted by Frank which hung over the
mantel. He dwelt lovingly upon it, seeing in it the touch of a genius.

"Surely," he said, "this new picture cannot be greater than that, though
it shall hang where kings can see it and this only graces the library of
my poor house. It has the feeling of a woman's soul with the strength
of a man's heart. When Frank and Claire marry, I shall give it back to
them. It is too great a treasure for a clod like me. Heigho, why will
women be so long a-shopping?"

He glanced again at the letter, and his hand went out involuntarily
towards it. He fondled it, smiling.

"Ah, Lady Leslie, I 've a mind to open it to punish you for staying so
long."

He essayed to be playful, but he knew that he was trying to make a
compromise with himself because his eagerness grew stronger than his
gallantry. He laid the letter down and picked it up again. He studied
the postmark over and over. He got up and walked to the window and back
again, and then began fumbling in his pockets for his knife. No, he did
not want it; yes, he did. He would just cut the envelope and make
believe he had read it to pique his wife; but he would not read it. Yes,
that was it. He found the knife and slit the paper. His fingers
trembled as he touched the sheets that protruded. Why would not Leslie
come? Did she not know that he was waiting for her? She ought to have
known that there was a letter from Paris to-day, for it had been a month
since they had had one.

There was a sound of footsteps without. He sprang up, crying, "I 've
been waiting so long for you!" A servant opened the door to bring him a
message. Oakley dismissed him angrily. What did he want to go down to
the Continental for to drink and talk politics to a lot of muddle-pated
fools when he had a brother in Paris who was an artist and a letter from
him lay unread in his hand? His patience and his temper were going.
Leslie was careless and unfeeling. She ought to come; he was tired of
waiting.

A carriage rolled up the driveway and he dropped the letter guiltily, as
if it were not his own. He would only say that he had grown tired of
waiting and started to read it. But it was only Mrs. Davis's footman
leaving a note for Les