the ideal of dreaming poets. Strange, strange, strange! But where there
is nothing strange, THERE--is there ever love?

And with this revelation of her own altered heart, came the clearer and
fresher insight into the nature and character of the man she loved.
Hitherto she had recognised but his virtues--now she beheld his failings!
beholding them as if virtues, loved him more; and, loving him, more
despaired. She recognised that all-pervading indomitable pride, which,
interwoven with his sense of honour, became relentless as it was
unrevengeful. She comprehended now that, the more he loved her, the
less he would forgive; and, recalling the unexpected gentleness of his
farewell words, she felt that in his promised blessing lay the sentence
that annihilated every hope.




CHAPTER III.

WHATEVER THE NUMBER OF A MAN'S FRIENDS, THERE WILL BE TIMES IN HIS
LIFE WHEN HE HAS ONE TOO FEW; BUT IF HE HAS ONLY ONE ENEMY, HE IS
LUCKY INDEED IF HE HAS NOT ONE TOO MANY.

A cold night; sharp frost; winter set in. The shutters are closed, the
curtains drawn, the fire burns clear, and the lights are softly shaded in
Alban Morley's drawing-room.

The old bachelor is at home again. He had returned that day; sent to
Lionel to come to him; and Lionel had already told him what had
transpired in his absence--from the identification of Waife with William