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at him a second time she was fully
convinced that she loved him. She was, perhaps, carried off her feet a
little--metaphorically speaking, of course--by his evident sincerity. At
that moment she would have done anything that he had asked her. The
pleasures of society, the social amenities of aristocratic life, seemed to
have vanished suddenly into thin air, and only love was left. She had
always known that Jack Meredith was superior in a thousand ways to
all her admirers. More gentlemanly, more truthful, honester, nobler,
more worthy of love. Beyond that, he was cleverer, despite a certain
laziness of disposition--more brilliant and more amusing. He had
always been to a great extent the chosen one; and yet it was with a
certain surprise and sense of unreality that she found what she had
drifted into. She saw the diamond ring, and looked upon it with the
beautiful emotions aroused by those small stones in the female breast;
but she did not seem to recognise her own finger within the golden
hoop.
It was at this moment--while she dwelt in this new unreal world-- that
he elected to tell her of his quarrel with his father. And when one walks
through a maze of unrealities nothing seems to come amiss or to cause

surprise. He detailed the very words they had used, and to Millicent
Chyne it did not sound like a real quarrel such as might affect two lives
to their very end. It was not important. It did not come into her life; for
at that moment she did not know what her life was.
"And so," said Jack Meredith, finishing his story, "we have begun
badly--as badly as the most romantic might desire."
"Yes, theoretically it is consoling. But I am sorry, Jack, very sorry. I
hate quarrelling with anybody."
"So do I. I haven't time as a rule. But the old gentleman is so easy to
quarrel with, he takes all the trouble."
"Jack," she said, with pretty determination, "you must go and say you
are sorry. Go now! I wish I could go with you."
But Meredith did not move. He was smiling at her in evident
admiration. She looked very pretty with that determined little pout of
the lips, and perhaps she knew it. Moreover, he did not seem to attach
so much importance to the thought as to the result--to the mind as to the
lips.
"Ah!" he said, "you do not know the old gentleman. That is not our way
of doing things. We are not expansive."
His face was grave again, and she noticed it with a sudden throb of
misgiving. She did not want to begin taking life seriously so soon. It
was like going back to school in the middle of the holidays.
"But it will be all right in a day or two, will it not? It is not serious," she
said.
"I am afraid it is serious, Millicent."
He took her hand with a gravity which made matters worse.
"What a pity!" she exclaimed; and somehow both the words and the
speaker rang shallow. She did not seem to grasp the situation, which

was perhaps beyond her reach. But she did the next best thing. She
looked puzzled, pretty, and helpless.
"What is to be done, Jack?" she said, laying her two hands on his breast
and looking up pleadingly.
There was something in the man's clear-cut face--something beyond
aristocratic repose--as he looked down into her eyes--something which
Sir John Meredith might perhaps have liked to see there. To all men
comes, soon or late, the moment wherein their lives are suddenly thrust
into their own hands to shape or spoil, to make or mar. It seemed that
where a clever man had failed, this light- hearted girl was about to
succeed. Two small clinging hands on Jack Meredith's breast had
apparently wrought more than all Sir John's care and foresight. At last
the light of energy gleamed in Jack Meredith's lazy eyes. At last he
faced the "initiative," and seemed in no wise abashed.
"There are two things," he answered; "a small choice."
"Yes."
"The first and the simplest," he went on in the tone of voice which she
had never quite fathomed--half cynical, half amused--"is to pretend that
last night--never was."
He waited for her verdict.
"We will not do that," she replied softly; "we will take the other
alternative, whatever it is."
She glanced up half shyly beneath her lashes, and he felt that no
difficulty could affright him.
"The other is generally supposed to be very difficult," he said. "It
means--waiting."
"Oh," she answered cheerfully, "there is no hurry. I do not want to be
married yet."

"Waiting perhaps for years," he added--and he saw her face drop.
"Why?"
"Because I am dependent on my