To the wild wood and the downs,
To the silent wilderness."
--PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.


"To your happiness," I said, lifting my glass, and looking the girl in
the eyes. She had the grace to blush, which was the least that she
could do, for a moment ago she had jilted me.

The way of it was this.

I had met her and her mother the winter before at Davos, where I had
been sent after South Africa, and a spell of playing fast and loose
with my health--a possession usually treated as we treat the poor,
whom we expect to have always with us. Helen Blantock had been the
success of her season in London, had paid for her triumphs with a
breakdown, and we had stopped at the same hotel.

The girl's reputation as a beauty had marched before her, blowing
trumpets. She was the prettiest girl in Davos, as she had been the
prettiest in London; and I shared with other normal, self-respecting
men the amiable weakness of wishing to monopolise the woman most
wanted by others. During the process I fell in love, and Helen was
kind.

Lady Blantock, a matron of comfortable rotundity of figure and a
placid way of folding plump, white hands, had, however, a
contradictorily cold and watchful eye, which I had feared at first;
but it had softened for me, and I accepted the omen. In the spring,
when my London tyrant had pronounced me "sound as a bell," I had