the Suydams—­and James Wayward is the last of his race, and I am the last of the French refugees, and the Malcourts are already ended.  Pax!

“True it begins to look as if the gentleman adventurer stock which terminates in the Ascotts and Portlaws might be revived to struggle on for another generation; but, Garry, we all, who intermarry, are doomed.

“Louis Malcourt was right; we are destined to perish; Still we have left our marks on the nation I care for no other epitaph than the names of counties, cities, streets which we have named with our names.

“But you, dear, you are wise in your generation and fortunate to love as you love.  For, God willing, your race will begin the welding of the old and new, the youngest and best of the nation.  And at the feet of such a race the whole world lies.”

* * * * *

These letters from Constance Palliser to her nephew continued during the autumn and early winter while he was at work on that series of public parks provided for by the metropolis on Long Island.

Once he was obliged to return to Pride’s Hall to inspect the progress of work for Mrs. Ascott; and it happened during his brief stay there that her engagement was announced.

“I tell you what, Hamil,” said Portlaw confidentailly over their cigars, “I never thought I could win her, never in the world.  Besides poor Louis was opposed to it; but you know when I make up my mind—­”

“I know,” said Hamil.

“That’s it!  First, a man must have a mind to make up; then he must have enough intelligence to make it up.”

“Certainly,” nodded Hamil.

“I’m glad you understand me,” said Portlaw, gratified.  “Alida understands me; why, do you know that, somehow, everything I think of she seems to agree to; in fact, sometimes—­on one or two unimportant matters, I actually believe that Mrs. Ascott thought of what I thought of, a few seconds before I thought of it,” he ended generously; “but,” and his expression became slyly portentous, “it would never do to have her suspect it.  I intend to be Caesar in my own house!”

“Exactly,” said Hamil solemnly; “and Caesar’s wife must have no suspicions.”

* * * * *

It was early November before he returned to town.  His new suite of offices in Broad Street hummed with activity, although the lingering aftermath of the business depression prevented for the time being any hope of new commissions from private sources.

But fortunately he had enough public work to keep the office busy, and his dogged personal supervision of it during the racking suspense of Shiela’s illness was his salvation.

Twice a week his aunt wrote him from Sapphire Springs; every day he went to his outdoor work on Long Island and forced himself to a minute personal supervision of every detail, never allowing himself a moment’s brooding, never permitting himself to become panic-stricken at the outlook which varied from one letter to another.  For as yet, according to these same letters, the woman he loved had never once mentioned his name.