outstretched should await his,
however sick at heart its owner felt, till the last pretext of belief
had flagged and died--belief in the impossibility of so terrible a doom,
consistently with any decent leniency of the Creator towards His
creatures.

"Oh--to please Irene, was it?" said Gwen, talking chancewise; not
meaning much, but hungering all the while for the slightest aliment for
starving Hope. "Who were 'the daughters of the Dream Witch?'" And then
she was sorry again. Better that a poem about darkness should have been
forgotten! She kept her hand outstretched, mind you!--even though Adrian
made matters worse by folding his hands round his arms on a high
chair-back, and leaning on it. "I wonder who she is," was the girl's
thought, as she looked at a ring.

"Let me see!" said he. "How does it go?" Then he quoted, running the
lines into one: "'In the night-watches in the garden of Night ever the
watchman sorrowing for the light waiteth in silence for the silent Dawn.
Dead sleep is on the city far below.' Then the daughters of the Dream
Witch came and went as per contract. No--I haven't the slightest idea
who they were. They didn't leave their names."

"You will never be serious, Mr. Torrens." She felt too heartsick to
answer his laugh. She never moved her hand, watching greedily for a sign
that never came. There was Irene coming back, having disposed of her
ladyship! "I _must_ go," said Gwen, "because of mamma. She's the Dream
Witch, I suppose. I _must_ go. Good-bye, Mr. Torrens! But I can leave
_my_ name--Gwen or Gwendolen. Choose which you prefer." She had to
contrive a laugh, but it caught in her throat.

"Gwen, I think." It was such a luxury to call her by her name, holding
her hand in his--for, the moment she spoke "good-bye," his hand had
come to meet hers like a shot--that he seemed in no hurry to relinquish
it. Nor did she seem concerned to have it back at the cost of dragging.
"Did you ever live abroad?" said he. "In Italy they always kiss
hands--it's rather rude not to. Let's pretend it's Italy."

She was not offended; might have been pleased, in fact--for Gwen was no
precisian, no drawer of hard-and-fast lines in flirtation--if it had not
been for the black cloud that in the last few minutes had been stifling
her heart. As it was, Adrian's trivial presumption counted for nothing,
unless, indeed, it was as the resolution of a difficulty. It was good so
far. Even so two pugilists are glad of a way out