ky
black, but he knew his Lymchurch every inch, and he fought it manfully,
though every now and then he was fain to cling to a gateway or a post,
and hold on till the gust had passed. Thus, breathless and dishevelled,
his tie under his left ear, his hat battered in, his hair in crisp
disorder, he reached at last the haven of the little porch of the house
under the sea-wall.

Rosamund herself opened the door; her eyes showed him two things--her
love and her pride. Which would be the stronger? He remembered how the
question had been answered in his own case, and he shivered as she took
his hand and led him into the warm, lamp-lighted room. The curtains
were drawn; the hearth swept; a tabby cat purred on the rug; a book lay
open on the table: all breathed of the sober comfort of home. She sat
down on the other side of the hearth and looked at him. Neither spoke.
It was an awkward moment.

Rosamund broke the silence.

"It is very friendly of you to come and see me," she said. "It is very
lonely for me now. Constance has gone back to London."

"She has gone back to her teaching?"

"Yes; I wanted her to stay, but----"

"I've heard from Stephen. He is very wretched; he seems to think it is
his fault."

"Poor, dear boy!" She spoke musingly. "Of course it wasn't his fault. It
all seems like a dream, to have been so rich for a little while, and to
have done nothing with it except," she added with a laugh and a glance
at her fur-trimmed dress, "to buy a most extravagant number of white
dresses. How awfully tired you look, Andrew! Go and have a wash--the
spare room's the first door at the top of the stairs--and I'll get you
some supper."

When he came down again, she had laid a cloth on the table and was
setting out silver and glass.

"Another relic of my brief prosperity," she said, touching the forks and
spoons. "I'm glad I don't have to eat with nickel-plated things."

She talked gaily as they ate. The home atmosphere of the room touched
Dornington. Rosamund herself, in her white gown, had never appeared so
fair and desirable. And but for his own mad pride he might have been
here now, sharing her pretty little home life with her--not as her
guest, but as her husband. He flushed crimson. Blushing was an old trick
of his--one of those that had earned him his feminine nickname of Dora,
and in the confusion his blushing brought him, he spoke.

"Rosamund, can you ever forgive me?"

"I forgive you from my heart," she s