any part of your interest in the
man's scientific attainments had become diverted to the man himself,
I should feel inclined to take him by the neck and throw him into the
Serpentine."

She said nothing. Her face had become very still, almost
expressionless. Rochester felt his heart turn cold.

"Pauline," he said, "before I go you will have to tell me that what I
fear could not come to pass. Perhaps you think that I insult you in
suggesting it. This young man may be clever, but he is not of our
world--yours and mine. He is a _poseur_ with borrowed manners,
_flamboyant_, a quack medicine man of the market place. He isn't a
gentleman, or anything like one. I am not really afraid, Pauline, and
yet I need reassurance."

"You have nothing to fear," she answered quietly. "I am sorry, Henry,
but I cannot discuss Mr. Saton with you. Yet don't think I am blind. I
know that there is truth in all you say. Sometimes little things about
him set my very teeth on edge."

Rochester drew a sigh of relief.

"So long as you realize this," he said, "so long as you understand, I
have no fear."

Pauline looked away, with a queer little smile upon her lips. How
little a man understood even the woman whom he cared for!

"Henry," she said, "I can only do this. I can give you my hands, and I
can wish you happiness. Go on with your experiment--I gather that for
the moment it is only an experiment?"

"That is all," he answered.

"When it is decided one way or the other," she continued, "you must
come and tell me. Please go away now. I want to be alone."

Rochester kissed her hands, and passed out into the street. He had a
curious and depressing conviction that he was about to commence a new
chapter of his life.

CHAPTER XXXII

AT THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE

Naudheim's disapproval was very marked and evident. He scoffed at the
great bowl of pink roses which stood upon the writing-table. He pushed
scornfully on one side the elegantly shaped inkstand, with its burden
of pens; the blotting-pad, with its silver edges; the piles of
cream-laid foolscap. Most of all he looked with scornful
disapprobation at his young host.

Saton was attired for his morning walk in the Park. During the last
few weeks--or months, perhaps--a touch of foppishness had crept into
his dress--a fondness for gray silk ties, a flower in his buttonhole,
white linen gaiters drawn carefully over his patent boots. Certainly
the contrast between this scrupulo