she was just now in that intermediate frame of mind during which a woman only reasons about a man in his absence.  The moment he appears, the electric circuit is closed and the quiescent state ceases.  She was at the point when his coming made a difference that she could feel; when she heard his step her blood beat faster, and she could feel herself turning a shade paler.  Then the heavy lids would droop a little to hide what was in her dark eyes, and there were many voices in her ear, as though the very air cried gloria, while her heart answered in excelsis.  But when he was come the gentle tale seemed carried on, as from the hour of his last going; and while he stayed life seemed one long day.

She had struggled hard, but in her deepest thoughts she had foreseen the termination.  It is the instinct of good women to fight against love—­he comes in such a questionable shape.  A good woman sees a difference between being in love and loving—­well knowing that there is passion without love, but no love without passion.  She feels bound in faith to set up a tribunal in her heart, whereby to judge between the two; but very often judge and jury and prisoner at the bar join hands, and swear eternal friendship on the spot.  Margaret had feared lest this Northern wooer, with his mighty strength and his bold eyes, should lead her feelings whither her heart would not.  Sooner than suffer that, she would die.  And yet there is a whole unspoken prophecy of love in every human soul, and his witness is true.

All this evening they sat side by side, welding their bonds.  Each had a secret care, but each forgot it utterly.  Claudius would not have deigned to think of his own troubles when he was with her; and she never once remembered how, during that morning, she had longed to tell him all about her brother-in-law.  They talked of all sorts of things, and they made up their minds to go to Newport the next day.

Miss Skeat asked whether Newport was as romantic as Scarborough.

CHAPTER XIV.

There were odours of Russian cigarettes in Mr. Horace Bellingham’s room, and two smokers were industriously adding to the fragrant cloud.  One was the owner of the dwelling himself, and the other was Claudius.  He sat upon the sofa that stood between the two windows of the room, which was on the ground floor, and looked out on the street.  The walls were covered with pictures wherever they were not covered with books, and there was not an available nook or corner unfilled with scraps of bric-a-brac, photographs, odds and ends of reminiscence, and all manner of things characteristic to the denizen of the apartment.  The furniture was evidently calculated more for comfort than display, and if there was an air of luxury pervading the bachelor’s quiet rez-de-chaussee, it was due to the rare volumes on the shelves and the good pictures on the walls, rather than to the silk or satin of the high-art