n the path was clear, and he was free to hope, free to
pursue, to strive with all his heart and soul to ... to do what? Why,
make love to her, of course, and presently ask her to marry him.
"Marry" ... The word came on him with a stunning shock, as it does to
every free bachelor when he sees the wedding-ring as a reality within
his grasp. However much we long to persuade the beloved object to the
vow--however much we have striven, hoped, schemed and waited--still, when
the time comes of a verity, and at last we can confidently say, "I am to
be married to-morrow!" or next week, or a year hence--then, in the midst
of our ecstasy, there comes a whisper, "_Married! Tied! Shackled!_" We
welcome our chains, of course,--we would barter our souls for the lovely
fetters; but there always comes, if but for the briefest of seconds, the
appalling thought, "Freedom has gone forever!" Is there a single husband
who, during the period of courtship, has never been "afraid with any
amazement"?

The thought, the fear, came to Lionel as to the rest of us, and for an
instant he felt like taking to his heels. Then he smiled as a grown-up
upon a child, naturally timid and ignorant. Next, his face fell, as he
harped back to his theme. He was to "make love" to her.

To a man of his stamp making love is not a difficult matter. To a man
like Tony it is a second nature--the breath of life--a perennial
pastime. But making love is not the same as loving, and to make love to
Beatrice would be an insult. He admired Beatrice so much--respected
her--was anxious to serve her, to obey her slightest whim,--thought her
the best and most desirable creature he had ever known. But if he did
not love her, it would be a base thing to pretend, to use her as a toy.
Did he love her or not? He wanted her--oh, yes! he wanted her as he had
never wanted any one else in his life. There had been others, of course,
with whom he had dallied--for instance, Mizzi. There had been one or two
in whom he had taken a more serious interest, like Miss Arkwright. With
the latter he had more than once imagined himself to be in love--he had
dwelt delightfully upon the possibility--had gone to bed reflecting,
"Dash it! Beatrice has forgotten me. Winifred's a darling! Why not?" And
then when the kiss had been offered, he had refused. Well, in that lay
hope of a greater certainty. He had refused the kiss--had he
not?--because of Beatrice. Therefore he loved her. Therefore he must
make l