owly into an answering smile.

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Wynne," said she.

"No?" said I.

"No," said Pamela, and she turned away. But before she went she looked
over her shoulder, and, still smiling, said, "Wish Miss Liston
good-night for me, Mr. Wynne. Anything I have to say to Sir Gilbert
will wait very well till to-morrow."

She had hardly gone in when the wanderers came out of the shrubbery and
rejoined me. Chillington wore his usual passive look, but Miss Liston's
face was happy and radiant. Chillington passed on into the
drawing-room. Miss Liston lingered a moment by me.

"Why, you look," said I, "as if you'd invented the finest scene ever
written."

She did not answer me directly, but stood looking up at the stars.
Then she said in a dreamy tone, "I think I shall stick to my old idea
in the book."

As she spoke Chillington came out. Even in the dim light I saw a frown
on his face.

"I say, Wynne," said he, "where's Miss Myles?"

"She's gone to bed," I answered. "She told me to wish you good-night
for her, Miss Liston. No message for you, Chillington."

Miss Liston's eyes were on him. He took no notice of her; he stood
frowning for an instant, then, with some muttered ejaculation, he
strode back into the house. We hoard his heavy tread across the
drawing-room; we heard the door slammed behind him, and I found myself
looking on Miss Liston's altered face.

"What does he want her for, I wonder?" she said, in an agitation that
made my presence, my thoughts, my suspicions, nothing to her. "He said
nothing to me about wanting to speak to her to-night." And she walked
slowly into the house, her eyes on the ground, and all the light gone
from her face and the joy dead in it. Whereupon I, left alone, began to
rail at the gods that a dear, silly little soul like Miss Liston should
bother her poor, silly little head about a hulking fool; in which
reflections I did, of course, immense injustice not only to an eminent
author, but also to a perfectly honorable, though somewhat dense and
decidedly conceited, gentleman.

The next morning Sir Gilbert Chillington ate dirt--there is no other
way of expressing it--in great quantities and with infinite humility.
My admirable friend Miss Pamela was severe. I saw him walk six yards
behind her for the length of the terrace; not a look nor a turn of her
head gave him leave to join her. Miss Liston had gone upstairs, and I
watched the scene from the window of the s