ly. She put out her hand to
him with a gesture half of acknowledgment, half of protest.

"I may be good to look at," she said, with a little whimsical smile.
"But--I tell you, Jack--I feel a perfect reptile. It's heads I win,
tails you lose; and--I just can't bear it."

There was a catch in the high voice that was almost a sob. Babbacombe
took her hand and held it.

"My dear," he said, "it's nothing of the sort. You have done me the very
great honour of giving me your full confidence, and I won't have you
abusing yourself for it."

She shook her head. "I hate myself--there! And--and I'm frightened too.
Jack, if you want me to marry you--you had better ask me now. I won't
refuse you."

He looked her closely in the eyes. "No, Cynthia," he said very gravely.

"I am not laughing," she protested.

He smiled a little. "It would be easier for me if you were," he said.
"No, we will go through with this since we have begun. And you needn't
be scared. He is hardly a ladies' man, according to my judgment, but he
is not a bounder. I haven't asked him to meet you to-night. I thought it
better not. In fact, I----"

He broke off at the sound of a step behind him. With a start Cynthia
turned.

A short, thick-set man in riding-dress was walking up the room.

"I beg your pardon," he said formally, halting a few paces from
Babbacombe. "I have been waiting for you in the library for the last
hour. I sent you a message, but I conclude it was not delivered. Can I
speak to you for a few seconds on a matter of business?"

He spoke with his eyes fixed steadily upon Babbacombe's face, ignoring
the woman's presence as if he had not even seen her.

Babbacombe was momentarily disconcerted. He glanced at Cynthia before
replying; and instantly, in her quick, gracious way, she came forward
with extended hand.

"Why, Mr. West," she said, "don't you know me? I'm Cynthia Mortimer--a
very old friend of yours. And I'm very glad to meet you again."

There was a quiver as of laughter in her words. The confidence of her
action compelled some species of response. West took the outstretched
hand for a single instant; but his eyes, meeting hers, held no
recognition.

"I am afraid," he said stonily, "that your memory is better than mine."

It was a check that would have disheartened many women; not so Cynthia
Mortimer.

She opened her eyes wide for a second, the next quite openly she laughed
at him.

"You are not a bit cleverer than you us