ted that momentous decision which
would cause the scale to turn. Yet the minutes passed. To prolong her
absence became impossible.

Just then there was a movement below, a crunching of the gravel, as
though of a horse growing restless, impatient of standing. Honoria
moved forward, opened the window, pushing back the casement against a
cluster of late-blossoming, red roses, the petals of which floated
slowly downward describing fluttering circles. Richard Calmady was just
below. Honoria called to him.

"I am coming, Richard, I am coming!" she said.

He turned in the saddle and looked up at her smiling--a smile at once
courageous and resigned. Yet, notwithstanding that smile, Honoria once
again discovered in his eyes the chill desolation and homelessness of
the sky of the winter night. Then the scale turned, turned at last--for
that same lovely pain grew lovelier, more desirable than any
possibility of ease, until such time as that desolation should pass,
that homelessness be cradled to content in some sure harbourage.--Here
was the thing given her to do, and she must do it! She would risk all
to win all. And, with that decision, all her serenity and freedom of
soul returned. The white light of a noble self-devotion, reckless of
self-spending, reckless of consequence, the joy of a great giving,
illuminated her face.

As to Richard, he, looking up at her, though ignorant of her purpose,
misreading the cause of that inspired aspect, still thought he had
never witnessed so graciously gallant a sight. The nymph whom he had
first known, who had baffled and crossed him, was here still, strong,
untamed, elusive, remote. But a woman was here too, of finest fibre,
faithful and loyal, capable of undying tenderness, of an all-encircling
and heroic love. Then the desires of the natural man stirred somewhat
in Richard, just because--paradox though it undoubtedly was--she
provoked less the carnal, perishing passion of the flesh, than the pure
and imperishable passion of the spirit. Irrepressible envy of Ludovic
Quayle, her lover, seized him, irrepressible demand for just all those
things which that other Richard, the would-be saint, had so sternly
condemned himself to repudiate, to cast aside and forget. And the
would-be saint triumphed--beating down thought of all that, trampling
it under foot--so that after briefest interval he called up to her
cheerily enough.

"Well, what do you make of the dust-cart? Rather fascinating, isn'