hint
had startled and disquieted him. But he could not believe it had any real
substance; and certainly he felt himself blameless. A creature so
radiant, with the world at her feet!--and he, prematurely aged, who had
seemed to her, only a few weeks ago, a mere old fogy in her path! That
she should have reconsidered her attitude towards him, was surely
natural, considering all the pains he had taken to please her. But as to
anything else--absurd!

Latterly, indeed, since she had come to that tacit truce with Jim, he was
well aware how much her presence in his house had added to the pleasant
moments of daily life. In winning her good will, in thinking for her, in
trying to teach her, in watching the movements of her quick untrained
intelligence and the various phases of her enchanting beauty, he had
found not only a new occupation, but a new joy. Rachel's prophecy for him
had begun to realize itself. And, all the time, his hopes as to
Geoffrey's success with her had been steadily rising. He and Geoffrey had
indeed been at cross-purposes, if Geoffrey really believed what he seemed
to believe! But it was nothing--it could be nothing--but the fantasy of a
lover, starting at a shadow.

And suddenly his mind, as he stood waiting, plunged into matters which
were not shadows--but palpitating realities. _His son_!--whom he was to
see on the morrow. He believed the word of the woman who had been his
wife. Looking back on her character with all its faults, he did not think
she would have been capable of a malicious lie, at such a moment. Forty
miles away then, there was a human being waiting and suffering, to whom
his life had given life. Excitement--yearning--beat through his pulses.
He already felt the boy in his arms; was already conscious of the ardour
with which every device of science should be called in, to help restore
to him, not only his son's body, but his mind.

There was a low tap at the door. He recalled his thoughts and went
to open it.

"Helena!--my dear!"

He took her hand and led her in. She had changed her white dress of the
afternoon for a little black frock, one of her mourning dresses for her
mother, with a bunch of flame-coloured roses at her waist. The
semi-transparent folds of the black brought out the brilliance of the
white neck and shoulders, the pale carnations of the face, the beautiful
hair, following closely the contours of the white brow. Even through all
his pain and preoccupation, Buntingfor