rt
of woman you think me, I should go on writing to you. But I shan't
write again. I am going to stay at Merrion through the winter, and
since you won't come here, this is the last of me for a long time
anyhow. Oh, you Tristrams! Good-by,

MINA ZABRISKA."

"Poor little Imp!" said Harry. "She's a very good sort; and she seems
about right. It's the end of everything." He paused and looked round.
"Except of these rooms--and my work--and, well, life at large, you
know!" He laughed in the sudden realization of how much was left after
there was an end of all--life to be lived, work to be done, enjoyments
to be won. He could know this, although he could hardly yet feel it in
any very genuine fashion. He could project his mind forward to a future
appreciation of what he could not at the moment relish; and he saw that
life would be full and rich with him, even although there were an end of
all. "But I don't believe," he said to himself, slowly smiling, "that I
should ever have come to understand that or to--to fulfil it unless I
had--what did the girl say?--done the straight thing in the end, and
come out of Blent. Well, old Blent, good-by!" He crumpled up Mina's
letter, and flung it into the grate.

The maid-servant opened the door. "Two gentlemen to see you, sir," she
said.

"Oh, say I'm busy----" he began.

"We must see you, please," insisted Mr Jenkinson Neeld, with unusual
firmness. He turned to the man with him, saying: "Here is Mr Tristram,
Colonel Edge."

XXV

THERE'S THE LADY TOO!

There was nothing very remarkable about Colonel Wilmot Edge. He was a
slightly built, trim man, but his trimness was not distinctively
military. He might have been anything, save that just now the tan on his
face witnessed to an out-of-door life. His manner was cold, his method
of speech leisurely and methodical. At first sight Harry saw nothing in
him to modify the belief in which he had grown up--that the Edges were
an unattractive race, unable to appreciate Tristrams, much less worthy
to mate with them. He gave the Colonel a chair rather grudgingly, and
turned to old Mr Neeld for an explanation of the visit.

Neeld had fussed himself into a seat already, and had drawn some sheets
of paper covered with type-writing from his pocket. He spread them out,
smoothed them down, cleared his throat, and answered Harry's look by a
glance at Edge. Mr Neeld was in