in the 'Chronicle.'"

"Very likely, darling! He must be some chap, when you come to think
of it." She says this slightly, as a mere rounding-off speech. Then
goes behind her husband's chair and kisses him over his shoulder as he
directs the envelope.

"Marmaduke, Copestake, Dickinson, and Humphreys," says he, as he
writes the names. "Now I call that a firm-and-a-half. Old Broad
Street, E.C. _That's_ all!--as far as _he_ goes. Now, how about
Puckeridge, Limited?"

"Don't write any more, Gerry dear; you'll spoil your eyes. Come and
look at the sunset. Come along!" For a blood-red forecast of storm in
the west, surer than the surest human barometer, is blazing through
the window that cannot be opened for the blow, and turning the
shell-work rabbit and the story of Goliath into gold and jewels. The
sun is glancing through a rift in the cloud-bank, to say good-night to
the winds and seas, and wish them joy of the high old time they mean
to have in his absence, in the dark.

The lurid level rays that make an indescribable glory of Rosalind's
halo-growth of hair as Gerry sees it against the window, have no
ill-boding in them for either--no more, that is, than always has
belonged to a rough night closing over the sea, and will do so always
until the sea is ice again on a planet sick to death. As he draws her
arm round his neck and she his round her waist, and they glance at
each other in the flaming glow, there is no thought in either of any
ill impending for themselves.

"I wish Sarah were here to see you now, Rosey."

"So should I, love! Only she would see you too. And then she'd make
you vainer than you are already. All men are patches of Vanity. But
I forgive you." She kisses him slightly in confirmation. They certainly
were a wonderful sight, the two of them, a minute ago, when the light
was at its best. Yes!--they wish Sally had been there, each on the
other's account. It was difficult to say which of the two had thought
of Sally first. Both had this habit of registering the _rapport_ of
everything to Sally as a first duty.

But a sunset glow, like this one, lasts, maybe, little longer than
a highest song-note may be sustained. It was to die. But Rosalind and
Gerry watched it out. His cheek was resting in the thick mass of soft
gold, just moving slightly to be well aware of it. The sun-ray touched
it, last of anything in the room, and died....

"What's that, dear love? _Why?_..." It was Rosalind that spoke.