ther directions had
taught him much, but experiences with her sex had been few. The designs
of other women had been patent to him, and he had been invincible to
all attack; but here was a girl who, with her friendly little fortune
and her beauty, could marry with no difficulty; who, he had heard,
could pick and choose, and had so far rejected all comers; and who, if
she had shown preference at all, had shown it for a poor man like Ian
Stafford. She had courage and simplicity and a downright mind; that was
clear. And she was capable. She had a love for big things, for the
things that mattered. Every word she had ever said to him had
understanding, not of the world alone, and of life, but of himself,
Rudyard Byng. She grasped exactly what he would say, and made him say
things he would never have thought of saying to any one else. She drew
him out, made the most of him, made him think. Other women only tried
to make him feel. If he had had a girl like this beside him during the
last ten years, how many wasted hours would have been saved, how many
bottles of champagne would not have been opened, how many wild nights
would have been spent differently!

Too good, too fine for him--yes, a hundred times, but he would try to
make it up to her, if such a girl as this could endure him. He was not
handsome, he was not clever, so he said to himself, but he had a little
power. That he had to some degree rough power, of course, but power;
and she loved power, force. Had she not said so, shown it, but a moment
before? Was it possible that she was really interested in him, perhaps
because he was different from the average Englishman and not of a
general pattern? She was a woman of brains, of great individuality, and
his own individuality might influence her. It was too good to be true;
but there had ever been something of the gambler in him, and he had
always plunged. If he ever had a conviction he acted on it instantly,
staked everything, when that conviction got into his inner being. It
was not, perhaps, a good way, and it had failed often enough; but it
was his way, and he had done according to the light and the impulse
that were in him. He had no diplomacy, he had only purpose.

He came over to her. "If I had gone to South Africa would you have
remembered my name for a month?" he asked with determination and
meaning.

"My friends never suffer lunar eclipse," she answered, gaily. "Dear
sir, I am called Hold-Fast. My friends are ce