"They do when their wives understand and are in absolute sympathy with
them," she said, returning his caress; "and that I should always be
with you. But do not imagine that I am in love with the idea of your
being a famous man. I care nothing for fame in itself. It is only that
I believe you to be capable of great things, and that you would be
happier if they were developed."

"Well, well," he said, laughing; "have your own way, as you will in
spite of me. If ever the divine fire lays me in ashes, you may triumph
in your predictions. But I must go and interview your father; I have
kept him waiting too long already."

They went out into the hall, and Dartmouth left her there and went to
the library. Sir Iltyd was sitting before a large table, reading by
the light of a student's lamp, which looked like an anachronism in
the lofty, ancient room. He closed his book as Dartmouth entered, and
rising, waved his hand toward a chair on the other side of the table.

"Will you sit down?" he said; "I should like to have a little talk
with you."

Dartmouth obeyed, and waited for the old gentleman to introduce the
subject. Sir Iltyd continued in a moment, taking up a small book and
bringing it down lengthwise on the desk at regular intervals while he
spoke:

"Of course, you must know, Harold, that it has not taken me two weeks
to discover my personal feelings toward you. I should have liked or
disliked you on the first evening we met, and, as a matter of fact, my