h the
open windows made it plain enough that Mabel was 'at home,' in a sense
that was only one degree less disappointing than what he had dreaded.

He was almost inclined to turn back or pass on, for he was feeling ill
and weak--the heat had brought on a slight tendency to the faintness
which still reminded him occasionally of his long prostration in
Ceylon, and he had a nervous disinclination just then to meet a host
of strangers. The desire to see Mabel again prevailed, however, and he
went in. The pretty double drawing-room was full of people, and as
everyone seemed to be talking at once, Vincent's name was merely an
unimportant contribution to the general hubbub. He saw no one he knew,
he was almost the only man there, and for a time found himself penned
up in a corner, reduced to wait patiently until Mabel should discover
him in the cool half-light which filtered through the lowered
sunblinds.

He followed her graceful figure with his eyes as often as it became
visible through the crowd. It was easy to see that she was happy--her
smile was as frank and gay as ever. The knowledge of this should have
consoled him, he had expected it to do so, and yet, to tell the truth,
it was not without its bitterness. Mabel had been his ideal of women,
his fair and peerless queen, and it pained him--as it has pained
unsuccessful lovers before--to think that she could contentedly accept
pinchbeck for gold. It was inconsistent on his part, since he had
sacrificed much for the very object of concealing from her the
baseness of Mark's metal. He forgot, too, the alchemy of love.

But one cannot be always consistent, and this inconsistency of
Vincent's was of that involuntary and mental kind which is not
translated into action.

She saw him at last and welcomed him with an eager impulsiveness--for
she knew now that she had been unjust to him at Laufingen. They talked
for some minutes, until Vincent said at last, 'I hear you are going to
play Beaumelle?'

'Oh, yes,' said Mabel. 'Isn't it presumption? But Mrs. Featherstone
(you've met her once or twice at our house, you know)--Mrs.
Featherstone would not hear of my refusing. Mark, I believe, thinks
the part hardly suited to me, but I mean to try and astonish him, even
though I may not carry out his own idea. I love Beaumelle in the book
so much that I ought not to be quite a failure in the play.'

'No, you will not fail,' said Vincent, and dared not say more on that
point. 'I--I s