ardness quite disfigured his mouth.

"I want to be alone to-day," he said dryly. "Tell them to send me up
some tea in the afternoon. I'll go to my room now--I shan't want any
dinner."

"But, sir, won't you----?"

"I want to be alone to-day," the old man reiterated tonelessly, "and
to be left alone."

"Very well, sir."

Lord Radclyffe walked slowly toward the staircase. Luke--his heart
torn with anxiety and sorrow--saw how heavy was the old man's step,
how listless his movements. The younger man's instinct drew him
instantly to the side of the elder. He placed an affectionate hand on
his uncle's shoulder.

"Uncle Rad," he said appealingly, "can't I do anything for you?"

Lord Radclyffe turned and for a moment his eyes softened as they
rested on the face he loved so well. His wrinkled hand sought the
firm, young one which lingered on his shoulder. But he did not take
it, only put it gently aside, then said quietly:

"No, my boy, there's nothing you can do, except to leave me alone."

Then he went up stairs and shut himself up in his own room, and Luke
saw him no more that day.

CHAPTER IX

WHICH TELLS OF THE INEVITABLE RESULT

And now a month and more had gone by, and the whole aspect of the
world and of life was changed for Luke. Not for Louisa, because she,
woman-like, had her life in love and love alone. Love was unchanged,
or if changed at all it was ennobled, revivified, purified by the halo
of sorrow and of abnegation which glorified it with its radiance.

For Luke the world had indeed changed. With the advent of Philip de
Mountford that spring afternoon into the old house in Grosvenor
Square, life for the other nephew--for Luke, once the dearly
loved--became altogether different.

That one moment of softness, when Lord Radclyffe--a bent and broken
old man--went from the library up the stairs to his own room,
determined to be alone, and gently removed Luke's affectionate hand
from his own bowed shoulders, that one moment of softness was the last
that passed between uncle--almost father--and nephew. After that,
coldness and cynicism; the same as the old man had meted out to every
one around him--save Luke--for years past. Now there was no exception.
Coldness and cynicism to all; and to the intruder, the new comer, to
Philip de Mountford, an unvarying courtesy and constant deference that
at times verged on impassive submission.

And the change, I must own, did not come gradually. Have I not