was not complimentary. His reply was deeply kind, effective. There was
a pause--and the great moment for them both passed. Something ought to
have happened. It did not. If she had had that touch of abandon shown
when she sang "The Waking of the Fire," Gaston might, even at this
moment, have broken his promise to his uncle; but, somehow, he knew
himself slipping away from her. With the tenderness he felt, he still
knew that he was acting; imitating, reproducing other, better, moments
with her. He felt the disrespect to her, but it could not be helped--it
could not be helped.

He said that he would call and say good-bye to her and Mrs. Gasgoyne at
four o'clock. Then he left. He went to his chambers, gave Jacques
instructions, did some writing, and returned at four. Mrs. Gasgoyne had
not come back. She had telegraphed that she would not be in for lunch.
There was nothing remarkable in Gaston's and Delia's farewell. She
thought he looked worn, and ought to have change, showing in every word
that she trusted him, and was anxious that he should be, as she put it
gaily, "comfy." She was composed. The cleverest men are blind in the
matter of a woman's affections; and Gaston was only a mere man, after
all. He thought that she had gone about as far in the way of feeling as
she could go.

Nevertheless, in his hansom, he frowned, and said: "I oughtn't to go.
But I'm choking here. I can't play the game an hour longer without a
change. I'll come back all right. I'll meet her in the Mediterranean
after my kick-up, and it'll be all O. K. Jacques and I will ride down
through Spain to Gibraltar, and meet the Kismet there. I shall have got
rid of this restlessness then, and I'll be glad enough to settle down,
pose for throne and constitution, cultivate the olive branch, and have
family prayers."