r full in the eyes, like two combatants
measuring strength before a battle.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

To Elma it was still a dream, but a dream growing momentarily more
wonderful and thrilling. The stupor in her head was passing away, and
there was nothing painful in the lassitude which remained. She was just
weak and languid, content to lie still in the sunshine, her head resting
on one of the cushions from the overturned cart, her eyes turning
instinctively to the bronzed face which bent over her with such tender
solicitude.

As for Geoffrey Greville, he was realising with a curious mingling of
dismay and elation that the moment was fated to be historic in the story
of his life. For the last two years he had been haunted by the vision
of Elma Ramsden's flower-like face at odd, but by no means inconsequent,
moments. When, for instance, his mother expatiated on the duty of
marriage for a man in his position, and extolled the fascinations of
certain youthful members of county society; when he walked down the long
picture-gallery, and regarded the space on the wall where his wife's
portrait might some day hang beside his own; when he sat at the head of
his table, and looked across at the opposite space; why was it that in
such moments as these the face of this one girl flashed forward, and
persistently blocked the way? Elma Ramsden!--just a little,
insignificant girl, whom he had met at half a dozen garden parties, and
at homes. She did not even belong to the county set, but was the
daughter of a funny, dumpy little mother, who disapproved on principle
of everything smart and up-to-date--himself emphatically included. The
good lady evidently regarded him as a wicked, fox-like creature, whose
society was fraught with danger to her tender bantling. He had seen her
clucking with agitation as he had sat with Elma beneath the trees.

Mrs Greville had a calling acquaintance with the Park ladies, and
occasionally referred with a blighting toleration to "Goody Ramsden,"
but she never by any chance mentioned Mrs Ramsden's daughter. Geoffrey
was doubtful whether she realised the fact of Elma's existence. Up till
now he himself had drifted along in the easy-going manner of bachelors
approaching their thirtieth birthday before the crucial moment arrives
which acts as a spark to smouldering flames. He had indulged in lazy
day-dreams in which Elma played the part of heroine; had thoroughly
enjoyed her society when fate placed