ht, hasty steps on an
uncarpeted corridor.

In the wave of surprise that swept over him he forgot his recent
excitement, his recent wish for action and fresh air. Lifting the
candlestick above his head, he peered along the passage that stretched
away beyond his own door. But the scrutiny was momentary. Almost at
once he lowered the candles and drew back, as he recognised the figure
of Clodagh coming towards him out of the gloom. She was wearing a
flowing, old-fashioned dressing-gown of some flowered material; one
strand of her brown hair had been loosened, and fell across her
forehead, shadowing her eyes into something of the beauty they were yet
to wear. And as Milbanke looked at her, he realised with a stirring of
something like embarrassment, that a touch of promise, very gracious
and infinitely feminine, had replaced the first, half-boyish impression
that he had received of her.

But if he felt embarrassment, it was evident that she was conscious of
none. As she came within a few yards of him she halted for an instant
to assure herself of his identity; then, her mind satisfied, she
stepped straight onward into the light of the six candles.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she said quickly. "I was afraid for a minute that it
was father. I've been waiting up for you," she added hastily. "I
couldn't go to sleep till I'd seen you."

Milbanke was confused. Moved by an undefined impulse, he extinguished
three of the six candles.

"Indeed!" he said. "But it's very late. You must--you must be tired."

He glanced uncertainly round the landing, as if seeking a chair to
offer her. Then an idea struck him.

"Will you come downstairs?" he suggested. "The fire is still alight in
the dining-room. You--you must be cold as well as tired."

He looked hesitatingly at her light gown.

But Clodagh shook her head.

"We mustn't go down," she said. "He might come in and find us--and then
we'd have a row. He and I of course, I mean," she added politely.

Then, as if impatient of the preamble, she plunged into the subject she
had at heart.

"Mr. Milbanke," she said, "will you promise me not to--not to, after
to-night----?"

Milbanke's face looked blank.

"Not to what?" he asked.

"Oh, not to encourage him--not to play with him. He's ruining himself
and ruining us all. Couldn't you guess it from dinner--from the quarrel
we had? Oh, he's so terribly foolish!"

Her voice suddenly trembled.

But he was labouring under the shock her rev