"You imputed your own standards to me. That's all there is about it, I
suppose," she said in a scornful sadness. He looked very miserable.
Compassion, and the old odd attraction which he had for her, stirred in
her mind. Her voice grew soft, and she held out her hand. "I'm sorry too,
very sorry, that it should have to be good-bye between us."

Beaumaroy did not take her proffered hand, or even seem to notice it. He
stood quite still.

"I'm damned if I know what I'm to do now!"

Close on the heels of his despairing confession of helplessness--for such
it undoubtedly seemed to me--came the noise of an opening door, a light
from the inside of the Cottage, a patter of quick-moving feet on the
flagged path that led to the garden gate. The next moment Mary saw the
figure of Mr. Saffron, in his old gray shawl, standing at the gate. He
was waving his right arm in an excited way, and his hand held a large
sheet of paper.

"Hector! Hector, my dear, dear boy! The news has come at last. You can be
off tomorrow!"

Beaumaroy started violently, glanced at his old friend's strange figure,
glanced once, too, at Mary; the expression of utter despair which his
face had worn seemed modified into one of humorous bewilderment.

"Yes, yes, you can start tomorrow for Morocco, my dear boy!" cried old
Mr. Saffron.

Beaumaroy lifted his hat to her, cried, "I'm coming, sir!" turned on his