pped it into the fire. The husband of the Lady Anne Mulliner must
not treasure love letters from another woman. The paper flamed orange
and blue, then shrivelled into blackened ashes. Malham, looking on,
read into the sight a simile with his own life. The beauty, the
splendour of it were burnt out; nothing but ashes remained.

It was a curious reflection for a man who would that day plant his foot
firmly on the ladder of success!

The fashionable church was filled to overflowing; reporters seated in
points of vantage jotted down the names of the aristocratic guests with
other details of public interest. "Marriage of an Earl's Daughter."

"Romantic Marriage."

"Marriage in High Life." The titles were already drawn out awaiting the
following description. "The Duchess of A. looked charming in amber
velvet with a sable cloak. The Marchioness of B. looked charming in
green, with a hat with white plumes. The bridesmaids, eleven in number,
were a charming group in grey satin and silver veils. They carried
charming bouquets of azaleas, which with charming gold and pearl bangles
were the gift of the bridegroom. Their names were --. The bride wore a
gown of white satin covered with old English point lace, the court train
was draped with the same valuable lace, and lined with silver tissue.
She carried a bouquet of orchids." There were a dozen reporters in the
church, and they used the word "charming" many, dozens of times
collectively, but not one of them ventured to apply it to the bride!

Lady Anne cried in a softly persistent fashion throughout the ceremony,
and the sight of her tears awoke a smouldering fury in Malham's heart.
Why need she cry? She had gained her desire. It was he who should cry!
In the vestry a young married relative came forward, and with deft
hands straightened the twisted wreath and arranged the folds of the
veil. "Really, Anne!" she cried impatiently, "you positively _must_
think of your appearance. My dear, if you could see yourself! For
goodness' sake pull yourself together." As she turned away, she shot a
glance at Malham, standing tall and impassive beside the table, and
there came into her eyes a cold comprehending gleam. "There," said her
eyes, "stands a man who has sold his soul!" There were eyes all round
him, studying him where he stood, and in them all he read the same
condemnation, the same scorn.

The organ blared; the bridesmaids ranged themselves behind the bridal