and held them out in her
palm to him; he regarded her merry eyes, the bright tints.

Erect, with well-assured poise, she looked at him; he took one of the
flowers, gazed at it, a tiny thing in his own great palm, a tiny, red
thing, like a jewel in hue--that reminded him of--what? As through a
mist he saw a spark--where?

"Only one?" she said in the same tone. "You are modest. And you don't
even condescend to put it in your coat?"

He did so; in his gaze was a sudden new expression, something so
compelling, so different, it held her, almost against her will. He
seemed to see her and yet not fully to be aware of her presence; she
drew back slightly. The girl's crimson lips parted as with a suspicion
of faint wonder; the blue eyes, just a little soberer, were, also, in
the least degree, perplexed. The man's breast suddenly stirred; a
breath--or was it the merest suggestion of a sigh?--escaped the firm
lips. He looked out of the window at the garden, conventional, the
arrangement of lines one expected.

When his look returned to her it was the same he had worn when he had
first stepped forward to speak with her that afternoon.

"Thank you for the lesson in botany, Miss Wray!" he said easily. "I
shall not forget it."

The other primroses fell from her fingers; with a response equally
careless if somewhat reserved, she turned and reentered the library.
Lord Ronsdale regarded both quickly; then started, as he caught sight of
the flower in John Steele's coat. A frown crossed his face and he looked
away to conceal the singularly cold and vindictive gleam that sprang to
his eyes.

* * * * *

CHAPTER IV

TIDES VARYING

One evening about a fortnight later Lord Ronsdale, in a dissatisfied
frame of mind, strolled along Piccadilly. His face wore a dark look, the
expression of one ill-pleased with fortune's late attitude toward him.
Plans that he had long cherished seemed to be in some jeopardy; he had
begun to flatter himself that the flowery way to all he desired lay
before him and that he had but to tread it, when another, as the
soothsayers put it, had crossed his path.

A plain man, a man without title! Lord Ronsdale told himself Miss
Jocelyn Wray was no better than an arrant coquette, but the next moment
questioned this conclusion. Had she not really been a little taken by
the fellow? Certainly she seemed not averse to his company; when she
willed, and she willed often, she s