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 grey eyes and flushed cheeks who sat
opposite to him at the table. She said nothing, but she looked at him,
and the beauty of her intoxicated him, and the smile of her found an
answer on his own lips. She ate nothing, nor did the waiter see her; so
far as the waiter was concerned, there was an empty chair, but Hugh
Alston saw her.