white-paneled, lilac-chintzed bower. Her heart was actually thumping
now. She had not noticed the books, which were carefully placed in a
pile down beside her writing table. Would he ever get away from her
father, who seemed to have taken to having endless political discussions
with him? Would he ever be able to come in time to talk for a moment,
before they must both go down? She had taken the precaution to make
herself quite ready to start--short skirt, soft felt hat, thick boots
and all.

Would he? But as half-past ten chimed from the Dresden clock on the
mantelpiece, there was a gentle tap at the door, and Francis Markrute
came in.

He knew in an instant, experienced fowler that he was, that his bird was
fluttered with expectancy, and it gave him an exquisite thrill. He was
perfectly cognizant of the value of investing simple circumstances with
delightful mystery, at times; and he knew, to the Lady Ethelrida, this
trysting with him had become a momentous thing.

"You see, I found the way," he said softly, and he allowed something of
the joy and tenderness he felt to come into his voice.

And Lady Ethelrida answered a little nervously that she was glad, and
then continued quickly that she must show him her bookcases, because
there was so little time.

"Only one short half-hour--if you will let me stay so long," he pleaded.

In his hand he carried the original volume he had spoken about, a very
old edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets, from which he had carefully had
one or two removed. It was exquisitely bound and tooled, and had her
monogram worked into a beautiful little medallion--a work of art. He
handed it to her first.

"This I ventured to have ordered for you long ago," he said. "Six weeks
it is nearly, and I so feared until yesterday that you would not let me
give it to you. It does not mean for your birthday: it is our original
bond of acquaintance."

"It is too beautiful," said Lady Ethelrida, looking down.

"And over there by your writing table"--he had carefully ascertained
this locality from Heinrich--"you will find the books that are my
birthday gift, if you will give me the delight of accepting them."

She went forward with a little cry of surprise and pleasure, while,
instantaneously, the wonder of how he should know where they would be
presented itself to her mind.

They were about six volumes. A Heine, a couple of de Musset's, and then
three volumes of selected poems, from numbers of the E