sat on, and with every glass of wine the
light in their eyes grew brighter. For who was there now in the room
to mind? Not a living soul! Only a tall, dark young waiter, a little
cross-eyed, who was in consumption; only the little wine-waiter, with a
pallid face, and a look as if he suffered. And the whole world seemed
of the colour of the wine they had been drinking; but they talked of
indifferent things, and only their eyes, bemused and shining, really
spoke. The dark young waiter stood apart, unmoving, and his cross-eyed
glance, fixed on her shoulders, had all unconsciously the longing of
a saint in some holy picture. Unseen, behind the serving screen, the
little wine-waiter poured out and drank a glass from a derelict bottle.
Through a chink of the red blinds an eye peered in from the chill
outside, staring and curious, till its owner passed on in the cold.

It was long after nine when they rose. The dark young waiter laid her
cloak upon her with adoring hands. She looked back at him, and in her
eyes was an infinite indulgence. 'God knows,' she seemed to say, 'if I
could make you happy as well, I would. Why should one suffer? Life is
strong and good!'

The young waiter's cross-eyed glance fell before her, and he bowed
above the money in his hand. Quickly before them the little wine-waiter
hurried to the door, his suffering face screwed into one long smile.

"Good-night, madam; good-night, sir. Thank you very much!"

And he, too, remained bowed over his hand, and his smile relaxed.

But in the cab George's arm stole round her underneath the cloak, and
they were borne on in the stream of hurrying hansoms, carrying couples
like themselves, cut off from all but each other's eyes, from all but
each other's touch; and with their eyes turned in the half-dark they
spoke together in low tones.

PART II

CHAPTER I

GREGORY REOPENS THE CAMPAIGN

At one end of the walled garden which Mr. Pendyce had formed in
imitation of that at dear old Strathbegally, was a virgin orchard of
pear and cherry trees. They blossomed early, and by the end of the third
week in April the last of the cherries had broken into flower. In the
long grass, underneath, a wealth of daffodils, jonquils, and narcissus,
came up year after year, and sunned their yellow stars in the light
which dappled through the blossom.

And here Mrs. Pendyce would come, tan gauntlets on her hands, and stand,
her face a little flushed with stooping, a