open; a gust of chilly air sent the ashes in the fireplace whirling
upward among the leaping flames.

Young Mrs. Malcourt entered the room.

Her gown, which was dark--and may have been black--set off her
dead-white face and hands in a contrast almost startling. Confused for a
moment by the brilliancy of the lamplight she stood looking around her;
then, as Portlaw waddled forward, she greeted him very quietly;
recognised and greeted Wayward, and then slowly turned toward Constance.

There was a pause; the girl took a hesitating step forward; but Miss
Palliser met her more than half-way, took both her hands, and, holding
them, looked her through and through.

Malcourt's voice broke in gravely:

"It is most unfortunate that my return to duty should happen under such
circumstances. I do not think there is any man in the world for whom I
have the respect--and affection--that I have for Hamil."

Wayward was staring at him almost insolently; Portlaw, comfortably
affected, shook his head in profound sympathy, glancing sideways at the
door where his butler always announced dinner. Constance had heard, but
she looked only at young Mrs. Malcourt. Shiela alone had been
unconscious of the voice of her lord and master.

She looked bravely back into the golden-brown eyes of Miss Palliser;
and, suddenly realising that, somehow, this woman knew the truth,
flinched pitifully.

But Constance crushed the slender, colourless hands in her own, speaking
tremulously low:

"Perhaps he'll have a chance now. I am so thankful that you've come."

"Yes." Her ashy lips formed the word, but there was no utterance.

Dinner was announced with a decorous modulation befitting the
circumstances.

Malcourt bore himself faultlessly during the trying function; Wayward
was moody; his cynical glance through his gold-rimmed glasses resting
now on Malcourt, now on Shiela. The latter ate nothing, which grieved
Portlaw beyond measure, for the salad was ambrosial and the capon was
truly Louis XI.

Later the men played Preference, having nothing else to do after the
ladies left, Constance insisting on taking Shiela back to her own house,
and Malcourt acquiescing in the best of taste.

The stars were out; a warm, sweet, dry wind had set in from the
south-west.

"It was what we've prayed for," breathed Constance, pausing on the lawn.
"It was what the doctors wanted for him. How deliciously warm it is! Oh,
I hope it will help him!"

"Is that _his_