He walked on, his heart full of an audacious joy; for now this was the picture before him; a Buckinghamshire hill; a red and white house among the beeches; and a spacious lawn looking out on the far and wooded plain, with its villages, and spires, and tiny curls of smoke.  And this foreign young lady become an English house-mistress; proud of her nectarines and pineapples; proud of her Hungarian horses; proud of the quiet and comfort of the home she can offer to her friends, when they come for a space to rest from their labors.... “Schlaf selig und suss!” the night-wind seemed to say:  “The white morning is bringing with it a message!”

To him the morning brought an end to all those golden dreams of the night.  There action had set in.  His old misgivings returned with redoubled force.  For one thing, there was a letter from Reitzei, saying that the man Kirski had at length consented to begin to work at his trade, and that Miss Lind need fear no further annoyance; and somehow he did not like to see her name written in this foreign way of writing.  She belonged to these foreigners; her cares and interests were not those of one who would feel at home in that Buckhamshire home; she was remote.  And, of course, in her manifold wanderings—­in those hotels in which she had to pass the day, when her father was absent at his secret interviews—­how could she avoid making acquaintances?  Even among those numerous friends of her father’s there must have been some one here or there to accompany her in her drives in the Prater, in her evenings at La Scala, in her morning walk along the Chiaja.  He remembered how seldom he had seen her; she might have many more friends in London than he had dreamed of.  Who could see her, and remain blind to her beauty?  Who could know her, and remain insensible to the fascination of her enthusiasm, her faith in the right, her courage, her hope, her frank friendship with those who would help?

He was impatient with the veteran Waters this morning; and Waters was himself fractious, and inclined to resent sarcasm.  He had just heard from Buckinghamshire that his substitute had, for some reason or other, intrusted the keys of the wine-cellar to one of the house-maids; and that that industrious person had seized the opportunity to tilt up all the port-wine she could lay her hands on in order to polish the bottles with a duster.

“Well,” said his master, “I suppose she collected the cobwebs and sold them to a wine-merchant:  they would be invaluable.”

Waters said nothing, but resolved to have a word with the young woman when he went down.

The morning was fine; in any case, Brand could not have borne the distress of waiting in all day, on the chance of her reply coming.  He had to be moving.  He walked up to Lisle Street, and saw Reitzei, on the pretext of talking about Kirski.

“Lind will be back in a week,” said the pallid-faced smart young man.  “He writes with great satisfaction, which always means something in his case.  I should not wonder if he and his daughter went to live in the States.”