and America,
he never allowed his body to take precedence of his mind. Every day,
come what might, he set apart the two or three hours of solitude, of
reading and meditation, which the intellect requires for its
nourishment, continuing to learn with the enthusiasm of a student who
is prolonging the life of the school and university until events
compel him to make a choice among the paths which he has opened up for
himself.

His father, to whom he was bound by ties of the liveliest affection,
was puzzled:

"After all, Simon, what are you aiming at? What's your object?"

"I am training."

"For what?"

"I don't know. But an hour strikes for each of us when we must be
fully prepared, well equipped, with our ideas in good order and our
muscles absolutely fit. I shall be ready."

And so he reached his thirtieth year. It was at the beginning of that
year, at Nice, through Edward Rolleston, that he made Miss Bakefield's
acquaintance.

"I am sure to see your father at Dieppe," said Rolleston. "He will be
surprised that you haven't returned with me, as we arranged last
month. What shall I say to him?"

"Say that I'm stopping here a little longer . . . or no, don't say
anything. . . . I'll write to him . . . to-morrow perhaps . . . or the
day after. . . ."

He took Rolleston's arm:

"Tell me, old chap," he said, "tell me. If I were to ask Lord
Bakefield for his daughter's hand, what do you think would happen?"

Rolleston appeared to be nonplussed. He hesitated and then replied:

"Miss Bakefield's father is a peer, and perhaps you don't know that
her mother, the wonderful Lady Constance, who died some six years ago,
was the grand-daughter of a son of George III. Therefore she had an
eighth part of blood royal running in her veins."

Edward Rolleston pronounced these words with such unction that Simon,
the irreverent Frenchman, could not help laughing:

"The deuce! An eighth! So that Miss Bakefield can still boast a
sixteenth part and her children will enjoy a thirty-second! My chances
are diminishing! In the matter of blood royal, the most that I can lay
claim to is a great-grandfather, a pork-butcher by trade, who voted
for the death of Louis XVI.! That doesn't amount to much!"

He gave his friend a gentle push:

"Do me a service. Miss Bakefield is alone for the moment. Keep her
friends engaged so that I can speak to her for a minute or two: I
shan't be longer."

Edward Rolleston, a friend of Simon's who s