ying disagreeable things for the
mere pleasure of saying them; but it is not so. I will beg your pardon
afterwards if I hurt you. What I want to say is this: I withdraw all my
claims, if I had any, to Miss Murray's hand. I release her from any
promise that she ever made to me. She is as free to choose as--as you
are yourself, or as I am. We have both offered ourselves to Miss Murray
at different times. It is for her to say which of us she prefers."

There was a silence. Elizabeth's face changed from white to red, from
red to white again. At last she looked up, and looked at Brian. He came
to her side at once, as if he saw that she wanted help.

"Percival," he said, "you are very generous in act: be generous in word
as well. Let the matter rest. It is cruel to ask her to decide."

"It seems to me that she has decided," said Percival, with a sharp,
short laugh, "seeing that she lets you speak for her."

"Oh, Percival, forgive me," murmured Elizabeth.

A spasm of pain seemed to pass over his face as he turned towards her:
then it grew strangely gentle. "My dear," he said, "I never pretended to
be anything but a very selfish fellow; but if I can secure your
happiness, I shall feel that I have accomplished one, at least, of the
ends of my life. There!"--with a laugh: "I think that's well said.
Haven't I known for months that I should be obliged to give you up to
Luttrell in the long run? And the worst is, that I haven't the
satisfaction of hating him through it all, because we have managed--I
don't know how--to fight our way to a sort of friendship. Eh, Brian? And
now I'll leave you to yourself for a few minutes, and you can settle the
matter while you have the opportunity."

He walked out of the hut before they could protest. But the smile died
away from his lips when he had left them, and was succeeded for a few
minutes by an expression of intense pain. He stood and looked at the
sea; perhaps it was the dazzling reflection of the sun upon the waters
which made his eyes so dim. After five minutes' reflection, he shrugged
his shoulders and turned away.

"There's one great consolation in returning to civilised life," he said,
strolling up to the group of friends as they returned from a walk round
the island. "That is--tobacco! Fate can't do much harm to the man who
smokes." And he accepted a cigarette from Mr. Fane. "Now," he continued,
"fortune may buffet me as she pleases; I do not care. I have not smoked
for four mo