spider had marked him for
its prey. The tropical sun had left him unsmitten. He had lived and he
had prospered; and he was here, like a guilty conscience incarnate, to
spoil Horace Smithson's peace.

'I must be diplomatic,' Smithson said to himself, as he walked up and
down an avenue of Irish yews, in a solitary part of the grounds, smoking
his cigarette, and hearing the music swell and sink in the distance. 'I
will give her a hint as to that man's character, and I will keep them
apart as much as I can. But if he forces himself upon me there is no
help for it. I cannot afford to be uncivil to him.'

'Cannot afford' in this instance meant 'dare not,' and Horace Smithson's
thoughts as he paced the yew-tree walk were full of gloom.

During that long meditation he made up his mind on one point, namely,
that, let him suffer what pangs he might, he must not betray his
jealousy. To do that would be to lower himself in Lesbia's eyes, and to
play into his rival's hand; for a jealous man is almost always
contemptible in the sight of his mistress. He would carry himself as if
he were sure of her fidelity; and this very confidence, with a woman of
honour, a girl reared as Lesbia had been reared, would render it
impossible for her to betray him. He would show himself high-minded,
confident, generous, chivalrous, even; and he would trust to chance for
the issue. Chance were Mr. Smithson's only idea of Divinity; and Chance
had hitherto been kind to him. There had been dark hours in his life,
but the darkness had not lasted long; and the lucky accidents of his
career had been of a nature to beguile him into the belief that among
the favourites of Destiny he stood first and foremost.

While Mr. Smithson mused thus, alone and in the darkness, Montesma and
Lady Lesbia were wandering arm in arm in another and lovelier part of
the grounds, where golden lights were scattered like Cuban fire-flies
among the foliage of seringa and magnolia, arbutus and rhododendron,
while at intervals a sudden flush of rosier light was shed over garden
and river, as if by enchantment, surprising a couple here and there in
the midst of a flirtation which had begun in darkness.

The grounds were lovely in the balmy atmosphere of a July night, the
river gliding with mysterious motion under the stars, great masses of
gloom darkening the stream with an almost awful look where the woods of
Petersham and Ham House cast their dense shadows on the water. Don Gomez