th a
peculiar dread. If ever he allowed himself to dream of love and
marriage, his mind turned to regions where fashion held no sway, where
ambitions were humble. May Tomalin stood between the two worlds,
representing a mean which would perchance prove golden.

So determined and courageous was his mood when he fell asleep that it
did not permit him long slumbers. A bright sunrise gleaming on a sky
which in the night had shed cool showers tempted him to rise much
before his usual time. He turned over a volume or two from the shelves
in the bedroom, seeking thus to keep his nerves steady and to tune his
mind. Presently he thought he would take a stroll before breakfast. It
was nearly eight o'clock; servants would be about and the door open. He
left his room.

Passing a great window at the end of the corridor, he glanced out upon
the garden lying behind the house. Some one was walking there it was no
other than May herself. She moved quickly, in the direction of the
park; evidently bent on a ramble before her friends were stirring.
Better chance could not have befallen him. He went quickly downstairs.

But, when he had made his way to that part of the grounds where May had
appeared, she was no longer discoverable. He strode on in what seemed
the probable direction, taking, as a matter of fact, the wrong path; it
brought him into the park, but at a point whence he looked in vain for
the girl's figure. This was vexatious. Should he linger here for her
return, or step out at a venture? He strolled vaguely for some minutes,
coming at length into a path which promised pleasant things. Perhaps
May had gone to the basky hollow yonder. If he missed her, they were
sure of meeting after breakfast.

He walked towards the clustered trees.

CHAPTER XXII

Piqued by the uneventfulness of the preceding day, May Tomalin stole
forth this morning in a decidedly adventurous frame of mind. She
scorned danger; she desired excitement. Duplicity on her part was no
more than Lord Dymchurch merited after that deliberate neglect of
opportunity under the great tree. Of course nothing irrevocable must
come to pass; it was the duty of man to commit himself, the privilege
of woman to guard an ambiguous freedom. But, within certain limits, she
counted on dramatic incidents. A brisk answer to her tap on the door in
the park wall made her nerves thrill delightfully. No sooner had she
turned the key than the door was impatiently pushed open f