ntury-flowers and are
always blooming."

"You count me among your friends?"

"I hope so. You will let me make all England envious of me, won't you?
I never did you any harm, and I do want to have a hero in my tiny
circle."

"A hero--you mean me? Well, I begin to think I have some courage when I
ask you to let me inside your 'tiny' circle. I suppose most people
would think it audacity, not courage."

"You seem not to be aware what an important person you are--how almost
sensationally important. Why, I am only a pebble on a shore like yours,
a little unknown slip of a girl who babbles, and babbles in vain."

She got to her feet now. "Oh, but believe me, believe me," she said,
with sweet and sudden earnestness, "I am prouder than I can say that
you will let me be a friend of yours! I like men who have done things,
who do things. My grandfather did big, world-wide things, and--"

"Yes, I know; I met your grandfather once. He was a big man, big as can
be. He had the world by the ear always."

"He spoiled me for the commonplace," she replied. "If I had lived in
Pizarro's time, I'd have gone to Peru with him, the splendid robber."

He answered with the eager frankness and humour of a boy. "If you mean
to be a friend of mine, there are those who will think that in one way
you have fulfilled your ambition, for they say I've spoiled the
Peruvians, too."

"I like you when you say things like that," she murmured. "If you said
them often--"

She looked at him archly, and her eyes brimmed with amusement and
excitement.

Suddenly he caught both her hands in his and his eyes burned. "Will
you--"

He paused. His courage forsook him. Boldness had its limit. He feared a
repulse which could never be overcome. "Will you, and all of you here,
come down to my place in Wales next week?" he blundered out.

She was glad he had faltered. It was too bewildering. She dared not yet
face the question she had seen he was about to ask. Power--yes, he
could give her that; but power was the craving of an ambitious soul.
There were other things. There was the desire of the heart, the longing
which came with music and the whispering trees and the bright stars,
the girlish dreams of ardent love and the garlands of youth and
joy--and Ian Stafford.

Suddenly she drew herself together. She was conscious that the servant
was entering the room with a letter.

"The messenger is waiting," the servant said.

With an apology she opened the note