dy Caroom's name at once caught his
eye. He read that her beautiful daughter Lady Sybil was quite the belle
of Homburg, that the Duke of Atherstone was in constant attendance, that
an interesting announcement might at any moment be made. He threw aside
the paper and looked thoughtfully out into the stuffy little street,
where even at night the air seemed stifling and unwholesome. After all,
was he making the best of his life? He had started a great work.
Hundreds and thousands of his fellow creatures would be the better for
it. So far all was well enough. But personally--was this entire
self-abnegation necessary?--was he fulfilling his duty to himself? was
he not rather sacrificing his future to a prejudice--an idea? In any
case he knew that it was too late to retract. He had renounced his
proper position in life, it was too late for him now to claim it. And
there had gone with it--Sybil. After all, why should he arrogate to
himself judgment? The sins of his father were not his concern. It was
chiefly he who suffered by his present attitude, yet he had chosen it
deliberately. He could not draw back. He had cut himself off from her
world--he saw now the folly of his ever for a moment having been drawn
into it. It must be a chapter closed.

The weeks passed on, and his loneliness grew. One day the opening of
still another branch brought him for a moment into contact with Mary
Scott. She too was looking pale, but her manner was bright, even
animated. She seemed to feel none of the dejection which had stolen
away from him the whole flavour of life. Her light easy laugh and
cheerful conversation were like a tonic to him. He remembered those
days at Medchester After all, she was the first woman whom he had ever
looked upon as a comrade, whom he had ever taken out of her sex and
considered singly.

She spoke of his ill-looks kindly and with some apprehension.

"I am all right," he assured her, "but a little dull. Take pity on me
and come out to dinner one night this week."

They dined in the annex of a fashionable restaurant practically out of
doors--a cool green lawn for a carpet and a fountain playing close at
hand. Mary wore a white dinner-gown, gossamer-like and airy. Her rich
brown hair was tastefully arranged, her voice had never seemed to him so
soft and pleasant. All around was the hum of cheerful conversation. A
little world of people seemed to be there whose philosophy of life after
all was surely the only true o