for guardians. He's
just a good-looking, clean-minded, high-spirited young fellow, full of
beans, and needing the bit every now and then. But, of course, he's no
different from the run of young fellows of his age, and if an adventure
came his way I suppose he'd see it through."

"And the girl?"

Andrew Pelham rose from his seat.

"I will show you her photograph," he said.

He passed into an inner room divided from the dining-room by curtains.
In a moment or two he reappeared.

"Here it is!" he said, and laid a picture upon the table.

Now Duncombe was a young man who prided himself a little on being
unimpressionable. He took up the picture with a certain tolerant
interest and examined it, at first without any special feeling. Yet in a
moment or two he felt himself grateful for those great disfiguring
glasses from behind which his host was temporarily, at least, blind to
all that passed. A curious disturbance seemed to have passed into his
blood. He felt his eyes brighten, and his breath come a little quicker,
as he unconsciously created in his imagination the living presentment
of the girl whose picture he was still holding. Tall she was, and slim,
with a soft, white throat, and long, graceful neck; eyes rather darker
than her complexion warranted, a little narrow, but bright as stars--a
mouth with the divine lines of humor and understanding. It was only a
picture, but a realization of the living image seemed to be creeping in
upon him. He made the excuse of seeking a better light, and moved across
to a distant lamp. He bent over the picture, but it was not the picture
which he saw. He saw the girl herself, and even with the half-formed
thought he saw her expression change. He saw her eyes lit with sorrow
and appeal--he saw her arms outstretched towards him--he seemed even to
hear her soft cry. He knew then what his answer would be to his friend's
prayer. He thought no more of the excuses which he had been building in
his mind; of all the practical suggestions which he had been prepared to
make. Common-sense died away within him. The matter-of-fact man of
thirty was ready to tread in the footsteps of this great predecessor,
and play the modern knight-errant with the whole-heartedness of Don
Quixote himself. He fancied himself by her side, and his heart leaped
with joy of it. He thought no more of abandoned cricket matches and
neglected house parties. A finger of fire had been laid upon his
somewhat torpid flesh a