ere she had
sat: and called myself a fool.

I had let her go. I did not know her name; I did not know where she
lived; she had been at the inn, but probably only for lunch. I should
never see her again, and certainly in that event I should never see
again such dark, soft eyes, such hair, such a contour of cheek and chin,
such a frank smile--in a word, a girl with whom it would be so
delightfully natural for me to fall in love. For all the time she had
been talking to me of architecture and archaeology, of dates and periods,
of carvings and mouldings, I had been recklessly falling in love with
the idea of falling in love with her. I had cherished and adored this
delightful possibility, and now my chance was over. Even I could not
definitely fall in love after one interview with a girl I was never to
see again! And falling in love is so pleasant! I cursed my lost chance,
and went back to the inn. I talked to the waiter.

"Yes, a lady in pink had lunched there with a party. Had gone on to the
Castle. A party from Tonbridge it was."

Barnhurst Castle is close to Sefton Manor. The inn lays itself out to
entertain persons who come in brakes and carve their names on the walls
of the Castle keep. The inn has a visitors' book. I examined it. Some
twenty feminine names. Any one might be hers. The waiter looked over my
shoulder. I turned the pages.

"Only parties staying in the house in this part of the book," said the
waiter.

My eye caught one name. "Selwyn Sefton," in a clear, round, black
hand-writing.

"Staying here?" I pointed to the name.

"Yes, sir; came to-day, sir."

"Can I have a private sitting-room?"

I had one. I ordered my dinner to be served in it, and I sat down and
considered my course of action. Should I invite my cousin Selwyn to
dinner, ply him with wine, and exact promises? Honour forbade. Should I
seek him out and try to establish friendly relations? To what end?

Then I saw from my window a young man in a light-checked suit, with a
face at once pallid and coarse. He strolled along the gravel path, and
a woman's voice in the garden called "Selwyn."

He disappeared in the direction of the voice. I don't think I ever
disliked a man so much at first sight.

"Brute," said I, "why should he have the house? He'd stucco it all over
as likely as not; perhaps let it! He'd never stand the ghosts,
either----"

Then the inexcusable, daring idea of my life came to me, striking me
rigid--a blow from my o