ry for
long with a vision like that, which was passing before his mind,
conjured up by memory.

Just for that instant, when the flush had come into her cheeks, she had
looked all those things that she was not--sweet, womanly, tender, and
gentle, a woman with an immense capacity for love.

"Bah!" said Hugh. "I'm an idiot. I shall go to a theatre to-night,
forget all about her, and go home to-morrow--home." He sighed a little
drearily. For months past he had pictured pretty Marjorie Linden as
queen of that home, and now he knew that it would never be. His house
would remain lonely and empty, as must his life be.

He sighed sentimentally, and took out Marjorie's little pink note from
his pocket-book. He noticed for the first time that it was somewhat
over-scented. He realised that he did not like the smell of scent,
especially on notepaper, and pink was not his favourite colour. In fact,
he disliked pink. Marjorie was happy, Lady Linden was beaming on Tom
Arundel, the cloud had lifted from Marjorie's life. Hugh tore up the
pink, smelly little missive, and dropped the fragments into the grate of
the hotel bedroom.

"That's that!" he said. "And it's ended and done with!"

He was amazed to find himself not broken-hearted and utterly cast down.
He lighted his pipe and puffed hard, to destroy the lingering smell of
the pink notepaper. Then he laughed gently.

"By every right I should now be on my way to the bar to drown dull care
in drink. She's a dear little soul, the sweetest and dearest and best in
the world. I hope Tom Arundel will appreciate her and make the little
thing happy. I would have done my best, but somehow I feel that Tom is
the better man, so far as Marjorie is concerned."

Grey eyes, not disdainful and cold and scornful, but soft, and filled
with kindliness and gentleness, banished all memory of Marjorie's pretty
pathetic blue eyes. Why, Hugh thought, had that girl looked at him like
that for just one moment? Why had she appeared for that instant so
different? It was as if a cold and bitter mask had fallen from her face,
and he had had a peep at the true--the real woman, the woman all love
and tenderness and gentleness, behind it.

"Anyhow, it doesn't matter," said Hugh. "I've done what I believed to be
the right thing. She turned me down; the affair is now closed, and we'll
think of something else."

But it was not easy. At his dinner, which he took in solitary state, he
had a companion, a girl with