him?"

"No."

"Is he a person with whom it would be disagreeable to her to associate?"

"Quite the contrary."

"And yet you expect me to prevent them from meeting! Be reasonable, Miss
Jethro."

"I can only be in earnest, Mr. Morris--more truly, more deeply in
earnest than you can suppose. I declare to you that I am speaking in
Miss Emily's interests. Do you still refuse to exert yourself for her
sake?"

"I am spared the pain of refusal," Alban answered. "The time for
interference has gone by. She is, at this moment, on her way to
Monksmoor Park."

Miss Jethro attempted to rise--and dropped back into her chair. "Water!"
she said faintly. After drinking from the glass to the last drop, she
began to revive. Her little traveling-bag was on the floor at her side.
She took out a railway guide, and tried to consult it. Her fingers
trembled incessantly; she was unable to find the page to which she
wished to refer. "Help me," she said, "I must leave this place--by the
first train that passes."

"To see Emily?" Alban asked.

"Quite useless! You have said it yourself--the time for interference has
gone by. Look at the guide."

"What place shall I look for?"

"Look for Vale Regis."

Alban found the place. The train was due in ten minutes. "Surely you are
not fit to travel so soon?" he suggested.

"Fit or not, I must see Mr. Mirabel--I must make the effort to keep them
apart by appealing to _him_."

"With any hope of success?"

"With no hope--and with no interest in the man himself. Still I must
try."

"Out of anxiety for Emily's welfare?"

"Out of anxiety for more than that."

"For what?"

"If you can't guess, I daren't tell you."

That strange reply startled Alban. Before he could ask what it meant,
Miss Jethro had left him.

In the emergencies of life, a person readier of resource than Alban
Morris it would not have been easy to discover. The extraordinary
interview that had now come to an end had found its limits. Bewildered
and helpless, he stood at the window of his room, and asked himself (as
if he had been the weakest man living), "What shall I do?"

BOOK THE FOURTH--THE COUNTRY HOUSE.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. DANCING.

The windows of the long drawing-room at Monksmoor are all thrown open
to the conservatory. Distant masses of plants and flowers, mingled in
ever-varying forms of beauty, are touched by the melancholy luster of
the rising moon. Nearer to the house, the restful shadows are