trusting her, to permit her company--"

The King interrupted himself for a moment, as he caught Jawkins's eye.
Then he resumed his walk hastily. "Yes, yes," he concluded, "I suppose
you are right."

Jawkins looked carefully around the room, and then continued in a lower
voice, "Does your Majesty know--what they say at court--that Mrs. Carey
wishes to be the King's--" George stopped him with a look.

"Yes, yes--I know all that."

"The American divorce laws are very lax, they say," Jawkins went on,
"and if the King were to marry her--"

"Marry her!" thundered the King; "God, man, what do you mean?"

"If I proved to your Majesty that such was her aim?"

"She should leave the court this instant."

"Will your Majesty permit me to send for her?"

Jawkins rang the bell for a messenger.

While this scene was going on between Jawkins and the King, the fair
subject of their discussion was differently engaged. She, too, had
passed a sleepless night. The sight of Geoffrey Ripon again had won upon
her strangely, and his unworldly speech had struck some chord in the
depths of her own heart now long unused. There is no greater error than
to suppose the evil beings of this world all one consistent evil--that
would be to be perfect, as Lucifer, the father of lies, alone is
perfect. Every life is but a sum of actions, and in every action the
good and evil motives are most nicely balanced at the best. A slight
preponderance of evil or even some exaggerated habit of mind--a little
over-development of pride, of ambition, of passion, a too accented doubt
and an overcold analysis--suffices to throw the decision on the wrong
side of every case, so that the outward life appears, perhaps, one
consistent darkness and wrong. But no one knows how near at every step
the noble impulse came to winning.

As Eleanor Carey strained her beautiful eyes in wakeful memories that
night, the one memory that remained to her was Geoffrey Ripon. When she
forced herself to close them, and tried to dream, the one dream was the
dream of Geoffrey dying for his friend and laying his broken sword at
the feet of his King. When she tried to think of his picture, the one
picture she could bear to look upon was Geoffrey Ripon. It had come to
this. All the scheming and the passion of the world, and the hard
ambition, the cold, worldly will that lifted her almost to a seat upon
the throne--they brought her so far and left her at the feet of her old
lover. This