passion-flower had been laid within his grasp. The eyes in whose light
he had sunned himself for months had leaped suddenly into a sweet and
passionate flame. He had seen the sun of a woman's wondrous beauty, and
long followed it afar. Miriam Gale was the success of the season. It was
understood that she had the entire unattached British peerage at her
feet. Nevertheless, her head had touched John Arniston's shoulder
to-night. He had kissed her hair. "A queen's crown of yellow gold," was
what he said to himself as he walked along, the evening traffic of the
Strand humming and surging about him. Because her lips had rested a
moment on his, he walked light-headed as one who for the first time
"tastes love's thrice-repured nectar."

He tried to remember how it happened, and in what order--so much within
an hour.

He had gone in the short and dark London afternoon into her
drawing-room. Something had detained him--a look, the pressure of a
hand, a moment's lingering in a glance--he could not remember which.
Then the crowd of gilded youth ebbed reluctantly away. There was long
silence after they had gone, as Miriam Gale and he sat looking at each
other in the ruddy firelight. Nor did their eyes sever till with sudden
unanimous impulse they clave to one another. Then the fountains of the
deep were broken up, and the deluge overwhelmed their souls.

What happened after that? Something Miriam was saying about some one
named Reginald. Her voice was low and earnest, thrillingly sweet. How
full of charm the infantile tremble that came into it as she looked
entreatingly at him! He listened to its tones, and it was long before he
troubled to follow the meaning. She was telling him something of an
early and foolish marriage--of a life of pain and cruelty, of a new life