ase, dearest," I replied. "I am entirely in your hands, as
you know," I laughed.

"That's awfully sweet of you, Owen," she declared. "You are always
indulging me--just like the spoilt child I am."

"Because I love you," I replied softly, placing my hand upon hers and
looking into her wonderful eyes.

She smiled contentedly, and I saw in those eyes the genuine love-look:
the expression which a woman can never feign.

Thus the autumn days went past, happy days of peace and joy.

Sylvia delighted in the theatre, and we went very often, while on days
when it was dry and the sun shone, I took her motoring to Brighton, to
Guildford, to Tunbridge Wells, or other places on the well-known
roads out of London.

The clouds which had first marred our happiness had now happily been
dispelled, and the sun of life and love shone upon us perpetually.

Sometimes I wondered whether that ideal happiness was not too complete
to last. In the years I had lived I had become a pessimist. I feared a
too-complete ideal. The realization of our hopes is always followed by
a poignant despair. In this world there is no cup of sweetness without
dregs of bitterness. The man who troubles after the to-morrow creates
trouble for himself, while he who is regardless of the future is like
an ostrich burying its head in the sand at sign of disaster.

Still, each of us who marry fondly believe ourselves to be the one
exception to the rule. And perhaps it is only human that it should be
so. I, like you my reader, believed that my troubles were over, and
that all the lowering clouds had drifted away. They were, however,
only low over the horizon, and were soon to reappear. Ah! how
differently would I have acted had I but known what the future--the
future of which I was now so careless--held in store for me!

One night we had gone in the car to the Coliseum Theatre, for Sylvia
was fond of variety performances as a change from the legitimate
theatre. As we sat in the box, I thought--though I could not be
certain--that she made some secret signal with her fan to somebody
seated below amid the crowded audience.

My back had been turned for a moment, and on looking round I felt
convinced that she had signalled. It was on the tip of my tongue to
refer to it, yet I hesitated, fearing lest she might be annoyed. I
trusted her implicitly, and, after all, I might easily have mistaken a
perfectly natural movement for a sign of recognition. Therefore I
laughed a