trothed had spent the whole afternoon together
jogging about the May-time park in a hansom-cab,--such was her
whim,--with late tea at the Inn of renown upon the Drive: and through
all, such talk as sped the hours on wings. How fascinating he was, she
seemed to have forgotten, in these days of absence and worry. And how
strong and all-conquering!--a man of such natural lordliness of mien
that cabmen and policemen, proud men and strangers as they were, spoke
to him with something akin to respect.

Yes, Hugo was, indeed, a rock and tower of strength. With him behind
her, she had the world at her feet.... Heavens! What could gossip
possibly do to Mrs. Hugo Canning?

Outside was the roar of conglomerate humanity. Up here in this strange
bedroom, indifferent host to a thousand transient souls, it was quiet
and even a little lonely. Once more Carlisle caught her mind at its
retrospective misbehavior, and once more turned the key on it. Having
laid out her dress on the bed, she stood and looked down into the
cheerless light-well a minute, and then decided to wake up her mother.
But she stopped on the way and turned back. Why wake up mamma half an
hour too soon, just to hear the sound of one's own voice?

She took off her watch, and raised her hands to begin unfastening her
waist. But she became engrossed in staring back at her reflection in the
mirror, and presently her hands dropped.

Face and form, background and destiny, she was possessed of blessings
many and obvious: all crowned now, sealed and stamped, with the love of
Hugo Canning, which, he had pledged himself, was a love which should not
die. What girl so entirely successful as she? Convincingly the excellent
glass gave back the presentment of loveliness endowed with all the gifts
of Fortune.

And yet she had run away: there was no evading that. An insignificant
boy thousands of miles away had sent out a cry for help, and she, the
proud and blessed, who had always considered herself quite as spunky as
another person, had bolted in a panic. And she had bolted too fast, it
seemed, to consider even that, with that cry, there had come a new
element into the situation, disturbing to the old argument. The full
reach and meaning of Jack Dalhousie's letter seemed to be coming upon
her now for the first time, just when she had ritually cremated it. Out
of the pink saucer had mysteriously blown the knowledge that the author
of that poor composition could no more be pictured