e finest scene ever
written."

She did not answer me directly, but stood looking up at the stars.
Then she said, in a dreamy tone:

"I think I shall stick to my old idea in the book."

As she spoke, Chillington came out. Even in the dim light I saw a
frown on his face.

"I say, Wynne," said he, "where's Miss Myles?"

"She's gone to bed," I answered. "She told me to wish you good night
for her, Miss Liston. No message for you, Chillington."

Miss Liston's eyes were on him. He took no notice of her; he stood
frowning for an instant, then, with some muttered ejaculation, he
strode back into the house. We heard his heavy tread across the
drawing room; we heard the door slammed behind him, and I found myself
looking on Miss Liston's altered face.

"What does he want her for, I wonder!" she said, in an agitation that
made my presence, my thoughts, my suspicions, nothing to her. "He said
nothing to me about wanting to speak to her to-night." And she walked
slowly into the house, her eyes on the ground, and all the light gone
from her face, and the joy dead in it. Whereupon I, left alone, began
to rail at the gods that a dear, silly little soul like Miss Liston
should bother her poor, silly little head about a hulking fool; in
which reflections I did, of course, immense injustice not only to an
eminent author, but also to a perfectly honorable, though somewhat
dense and decidedly conceited, gentleman.

The next morning Sir Gilbert Chillington ate dirt--there is no other
way of expressing it--in great quantities and with infinite humility.

My admirable friend Miss Pamela was severe. I saw him walk six yards
behind her for the length of the terrace: not a look nor a turn of her
head gave him leave to join her. Miss Liston had gone upstairs, and I
watched the scene from the window of the smoking room. At last, at the
end of the long walk, just where the laurel-bushes mark the beginning
of the shrubberies--on the threshold of the scene of his crime--Pamela
turned round suddenly and faced the repentant sinner. The most
interesting things in life are those which, perhaps by the inevitable
nature of the case, one does not hear; and I did not hear the scene
which followed. For a while they stood talking--rather, he talked and
she listened. Then she turned again and walked slowly into the
shrubbery. Chillington followed. It was the end of a chapter, and I
laid down the book.

How and from whom Miss Liston h