trembled, she added:

"A note, please, sir; and the messenger boy is waiting for--an answer."

While he read the note she noticed with concern how packing had brought
the blood into his head....

When, in response to that note, Courtier entered the well-known
confectioner's called Gustard's, it was still not quite tea-time, and
there seemed to him at first no one in the room save three middle-aged
women packing sweets; then in the corner he saw Barbara. The blood was
no longer in his head; he was pale, walking down that mahogany-coloured
room impregnated with the scent of wedding-cake. Barbara, too, was pale.

So close to her that he could count her every eyelash, and inhale the
scent of her hair and clothes to listen to her story of Miltoun, so
hesitatingly, so wistfully told, seemed very like being kept waiting with
the rope already round his neck, to hear about another person's
toothache. He felt this to have been unnecessary on the part of Fate!
And there came to him perversely the memory of that ride over the
sun-warmed heather, when he had paraphrased the old Sicilian song: 'Here
will I sit and sing.' He was a long way from singing now; nor was there
love in his arms. There was instead a cup of tea; and in his nostrils
the scent of cake, with now and then a whiff of orange-flower water.

"I see," he said, when she had finished telling him: "'Liberty's a
glorious feast!' You want me to go to your brother, and quote Bums? You
know, of course, that he regards me as dangerous."

"Yes; but he respects and likes you."

"And I respect and like him," answered Courtier.

One of the middle-aged females passed, carrying a large white card-board
box; and the creaking of her stays broke the hush.

"You have been very sweet to me," said Barbara, suddenly.

Courtier's heart stirred, as if it were turning over within him; and
gazing into his teacup, he answered--

"All men are decent to the evening star. I will go at once and find your
brother. When shall I bring you news?"

"To-morrow at five I'll be at home."

And repeating, "To-morrow at five," he rose.

Looking back from the door, he saw her face puzzled, rather reproachful,
and went out gloomily. The scent of cake, and orange-flower water, the
creaking of the female's stays, the colour of mahogany, still clung to
his nose and ears, and eyes; but within him it was all dull baffled rage.
Why had he not made the most of this unexpected chance; why had he