The life unlived, the deed undone, the tear
Unshed.

"I rather expect--Lady Cantourne," said Sir John to his servants when he
returned home, "any time between now and ten o'clock."

The butler, having a vivid recollection of an occasion when Lady
Cantourne was shown into a drawing-room where there were no flowers,
made his preparations accordingly. The flowers were set out with that
masculine ignorance of such matters which brings a smile--not wholly of
mirth--to a woman's face. The little-used drawing-room was brought
under the notice of the housekeeper for that woman's touch which makes a
drawing-room what it is. It was always ready--this room, though Sir John
never sat in it. But for Lady Cantourne it was always more than ready.

Sir John went to the library and sat rather wearily down in the
stiff-backed chair before the fire. He began by taking up the evening
newspaper, but failed to find his eyeglasses, which had twisted up in
some aggravating manner with his necktie. So he laid aside the journal
and gave way to the weakness of looking into the fire.

Once or twice his head dropped forward rather suddenly, so that his
clean-shaven chin touched his tie-pin, and this without a feeling of
sleepiness warranting the relaxation of the spinal column. He sat up
suddenly on each occasion and threw back his shoulders.

"Almost seems," he muttered once, "as if I were getting to be an old
man."

After that he remembered nothing until the butler, coming in with the
lamp, said that Lady Cantourne was in the drawing-room. The man busied
himself with the curtains, carefully avoiding a glance in his master's
direction. No one had ever found Sir John asleep in a chair during the
hours that other people watch, and this faithful old servant was not
going to begin to do so now.

"Ah," said Sir John, surreptitiously composing his collar and voluminous
necktie, "thank you."

He rose and glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven. He had slept
through the most miserable hour of Millicent Chyne's life.

At the head of the spacious staircase he paused in front of the mirror,
half hidden behind exotics, and pressed down his wig behind either ear.
Then he went into the drawing-room.

Lady Cantourne was standing impatiently on the hearthrug, and scarcely
responded to his bow.

"Has Jack been here?" she asked.

"No."

She stamped a foot, still neat despite its long journey over a road that
had never been very s