hat moment he began to realize
how much of the intelligence of the heart she possessed, and how widely
she applied it. His application of his intelligence of the heart was, he
feared, much less widespread than hers.

"Go to see mother when you can, will you?" he said. "She's very fond of
you, I think."

"I'll go. I like going to her."

"And, Beattie, may I say something rather intimate? I'm your brother
now."

"Yes."

She was sitting opposite to him near the fire on a low chair. There was
a large shaded lamp in the room, but it was on a rather distant table.
He saw Beatrice's face by the firelight and her narrow thoroughbred
figure in a dark dress. And the firelight, he thought, gave to both face
and figure a sort of strange beauty that was sad, and that had something
of the strangeness and the beauty of those gold and red castles children
see in the fire. They glow--and that evening there was a sort of glow
in Beatrice; they crumble--and then there was a pathetic something in
Beatrice, too, which suggested wistful desires, perhaps faint hopes and
an ending of ashes.

"Would you marry old Guy if he asked you? Don't be angry with me."

"I'm not."

"Of course, we've all known for ages how much he cares for you. He spoke
to me about it to-day. He's desperately afraid of your refusing him. He
daren't put his fate to the test. Beattie--would you?"

A slow red crept over Beatrice's face. She put up one hand to guard
herself from the glow of the fire. For a moment she looked at Dion, and
he thought, "What a strange expression firelight can give to a face!"
Then she said:

"I can't tell you."

Her voice was husky.

"Beattie, you've got a cold!"

"Have I?"

She got up.

"I must go, Dion. I'll just see Rosamund for a minute."

As she left the room, she said:

"I'll go and see your mother to-morrow."

The door shut. Dion stood with one elbow resting on the mantelpiece and
looked down into the fire. He saw his mother sitting alone, a strange,
emptied figure; he saw Beatrice. And fire, which beautifies, or makes
romantic and sad everything gave to Beatrice the look of his mother. For
a moment his soul was full of questions about the two women.

CHAPTER II

"I've joined the Artists' Rifles," Dion said to Rosamund one day.

He spoke almost bruskly. Of late he had begun to develop a manner
which had just a hint of roughness in it sometimes. This manner was the
expression of a strong inward effort he wa