d, Jimmie," he said. "You know that, don't you?
But I've come home to have a good time, and I'm going to have it--I
don't care how."

"I wouldn't drink any more," Jimmie urged.

"Another bottle, old chap," Jack cried, thickly, as he lighted a fresh
cigar; "and then we'll wind up at the Empire."

"None for me, thank you."

"Then I'll drink it myself," vowed Jack. "Do you hear, _garcon_--'nother
bottle!'"

Jimmie looked at him gravely. He had serious misgivings about the
future.

* * * * *

Many of London's spacious suburbs have the advantage of lying beyond the
scope of the fog-breeding smoke which hangs over the great city, and at
Strand-on-the-Green, on that 9th of November, the weather was less
disagreeable.

A man and a woman came slowly from the direction of Kew Bridge,
sauntering along the wet flagstones of the winding old quay, which
was almost as lonely as a rustic lane. Victor Nevill looked very
aristocratic and handsome in his long Chesterfield coat and top hat; in
one gray-gloved hand he swung a silver-headed stick. Madge Foster walked
quietly by his side, a dainty picture in furs. She was as lovely as
ever, if not more so, but it was a pale, fragile sort of beauty. She had
spent the summer in Scotland and the month of September in Devonshire,
and had returned to town at the beginning of October. Change of air and
scenery had worked a partial cure, but had not brought back her merry,
light-hearted disposition. She secretly nursed her grief--the sorrow
that had fallen on her happy young life--and tried hard not to show it.
There was a wistful, far-away expression in her eyes, and she seemed
unconscious of the presence of her companion.

"It's a beastly day," remarked Nevill. "I shouldn't like to live by the
river in winter. You need cheering up. What do you say to a box at the
Savoy to-night? There is plenty of time to arrange--"

"I don't care to go, thank you," was the indifferent reply.

The girl drew her furs closer about her throat, and watched a grimy
barge that was creeping up stream. She had become resigned to seeing a
good deal of Victor Nevill lately, but her treatment of him was little
altered. She knew his real name now, and that he was the heir of Sir
Lucius Chesney. She had accepted his excuses--listened to him with
resentment and indignation when he explained that he had assumed the
name of Royle because he wanted to win her for himself alone, and not