heart would break under this load of loneliness!

Presently, as I looked out on the sloppy morning street, I was vaguely
aware through the mist that floated before my dry eyes (for tears were
denied me) of a very grand carriage driving up to the doorway--the porch
with the four wooden Ionic pillars. I took no heed of it. I was too
heart-sick for observation. My life was wrecked, and Harold's with it.
Yet, dimly through the mist, I became conscious after a while that the
carriage was that of an Indian prince; I could see the black faces, the
white turbans, the gold brocades of the attendants in the dickey. Then
it came home to me with a pang that this was the Maharajah.

It was kindly meant; yet after all that had been insinuated in court the
day before, I was by no means over-pleased that his dusky Highness
should come to call upon me. Walls have eyes and ears. Reporters were
hanging about all over London, eager to distinguish themselves by
successful eavesdropping. They would note, with brisk innuendoes after
their kind, how 'the Maharajah of Moozuffernuggar called early in the
day on Miss Lois Cayley, with whom he remained for at least half an hour
in close consultation.' I had half a mind to send down a message that I
could not see him. My face still burned with the undeserved shame of the
cross-eyed Q.C.'s unspeakable suggestions.

Before I could make my mind up, however, I saw to my surprise that the
Maharajah did not propose to come in himself. He leaned back in his
place with his lordly Eastern air, and waited, looking down on the
gapers in the street, while one of the two gorgeous attendants in the
dickey descended obsequiously to receive his orders. The man was dressed
as usual in rich Oriental stuffs, and wore his full white turban swathed
in folds round his head. I could not see his features. He bent forward
respectfully with Oriental suppleness to take his Highness's orders.
Then, receiving a card and bowing low, he entered the porch with the
wooden Ionic pillars, and disappeared within, while the Maharajah folded
his hands and seemed to resign himself to a temporary Nirvana.

[Illustration: THE MESSENGER ENTERED.]

A minute later, a knock sounded on my door. 'Come in!' I said, faintly;
and the messenger entered.

I turned and faced him. The blood rushed to my cheek. 'Harold!' I cried,
darting forward. My joy overcame me. He folded me in his arms. I allowed
him, unreproved. For the first time he kisse