irst remark ever made upon the subject: 'It is not
good that the man should be alone.'"

A dull flush showed under Michael's sallow akin.

"_C'est a dire, il faut se ranger_!" he said with an embarrassed laugh.
"Well . . . find me a woman who understands and inspires me like
yourself, and it is possible,--I do not say probable,--that I may yet
fulfil the whole duty of man. If one could only suggest a five years'
contract . . !"

"Michel! You are incorrigible; and I have preached in vain! Besides,
it is not a wife of my sort you need, I thought you found that out last
year; and . . . I think so still. If not, why have you stayed on
here? And why did you make that exquisite pastel of her portrait?"

Michael's eyes seemed to demand an answer from the accusing picture;
and there was an instant of silence.

"I stayed on here," he said at length, "chiefly because, lacking you, I
seem to lack initiative; and I painted that . . well, as a memento of
my best bit of work, and of a dream, more delectable than most . . .
while it lasted; but none the less . . a dream."

"Yet you have seen a good deal of her this season, one way and another."

"Yes. In spite of the Button Quail!"

"And it would hurt you it she were to marry another man?"

Michael frowned. "There _is_ no other man, since Malcolm went home."

"Is there any man at all, I wonder?"

Michael rose abruptly, and going over to Elsie's portrait stood before
it, his hands clasped behind him.

"I have wondered also," he said on a rare note of gravity. "But you
women are enigmas; even the simplest of you."

"Ask her, Michel; ask her. Wondering is waste of time: and time is
life. People so often forget that."

Maurice did not answer. But Quita was well content: for she saw how
Elsie's violet-blue eyes were holding him, drawing him irresistibly
back to the old allegiance. Yet, had she known it, Elsie's eyes had
less to do with the matter than her own stimulating personality. The
subtle development in her had not been without its effect on him. He
saw her transfigured by the exquisite, self-effacing passion of the
woman; and found himself envying the man; though the eloquence of her
appeal had, as usual, fired his imagination rather than his heart.

Suddenly he swung round upon her, his face alight.

"_Parbleu_, Quita, but you are right! You always are. And as there's
no time like now, I'll ask her to-day . . I have scarcely seen her this
last fo