It came home to him, at the instant, what a toss-up it all was. What was
he doing? No matter: it was a game, in which nothing was sure--nothing
save this girl. She would, he knew, with the abandon of an absorbing
passion, throw all things away for him.

Such as Madame Chalice--ah, she was a part of this brave fantasy, this
dream of empire, this inspiring play! But Elise Malboir was life itself,
absolute, true, abiding. His nature swam gloriously in his daring
exploit; he believed in it, he sank himself in it with a joyous
recklessness; it was his victory or his doom. But it was a shake of the
dice--had Fate loaded them against him?

He looked up the hill towards the Manor. Life was there in its essence;
beauty, talent, the genius of the dreamer, like his own. But it was not
for him; dauphin or fool, it was not for him! Madame Chalice was
his friendly inquisitor, not his enemy; she endured him for some talent
he had shown, for the apparent sincerity of his love for the cause; but
that was all. Yet she was ever in this dream of his, and he felt that
she would always be; the unattainable, the undeserved, more splendid than
his cause itself--the cause for which he would give--what would he give?
Time would show.

But Elise Malboir, abundant, true, fine, in the healthy vigour of her
nature, with no dream in her heart but love fulfilled--she was no part of
his adventure, but of that vital spirit which can bring to the humblest
as to the highest the good reality of life.