no further, and sent
in his papers. Farewell dinners followed, and the mess tried to carry
him round the table at the risk of collective apoplexy (for he was a
huge favourite in every sense of the word), then the _Peninsula_ weighed
anchor, and Gibraltar saw him no more.

It was some time, however, after taking over his new work that he
ventured to call on Mrs Cameron. He respected her widowhood; he feared
the renewal of his acquaintance might revive unhappy recollections; but
he went at last.

He was pathetically nervous when introduced into the tiny drawing-room
where Phoebe sat alone. But the moment he heard her rippling laughter he
was reassured. The room was small, and Ralph was big and clumsy. In his
advance one of those Algerian tables, so admirably constructed to bark
the shins or bang the knees of unsuspecting mortals, gave way before him
and scattered its _bric-a-brac_ far and wide. This trifling incident
served to put him on his old footing at once, and in fact to establish
his identity, for Danby's reputation for wreckage had been universal as
well as costly.

"At it again, you see, Mrs Cameron!" exclaimed he, as he hastened to
right the impediment. "Allow me. I am so sorry. Allow me!" he gasped,
while grovelling with her on the floor in search of some errant trinket
which had rolled into space. She "laughed a merry laugh and said a sweet
say" of forgiveness, while he noted a transient blush on her downy
cheek. He was not a vain man, but he harboured a tiny wonder whether it
had been born at sight of him or of the mere exertion of stooping.

"I have a practice quite near here," he volunteered aloud. "It was the
stooping," decided the inward mentor regretfully.

"How curious!"

He did not think it so, but agreed.

"It _is_ strange. My father is old, and he was quite pleased to retire
when he found me fit for the berth. I thought life at Gib awfully
monotonous, and was glad enough to throw it up."

He had not complained before Phoebe Cameron left, but the question of
his sentiments did not come under discussion. They talked of old friends
a little scrappily and with some constraint--so much had happened since
they had met, and numerous recollections had to be skipped--until his
hostess asked:--

"Would you like to see my wee Phoebe? She is growing wonderfully. She is
nearly two years old now!"

Her voice sank with an inflexion of sorrow. The age of her child
recalled the long blank which occupied