Mrs. Trevelyan, as she took her seat, shot a quick glance down the length of her table and at the arrangement of her guests, and tried to learn if her lord and master approved.  But he was listening to something Lady Arbuthnot, who sat on his right, was saying, and, being a man, failed to catch her meaning, and only smiled unconcernedly and cheerfully back at her.  But the wife of the Austrian Minister, who was her very dearest friend, saw and appreciated, and gave her a quick little smile over her fan, which said that the table was perfect, the people most interesting, and that she could possess her soul in peace.  So Mrs. Trevelyan pulled at the tips of her gloves and smiled upon her guests.  Mrs. Trevelyan was not used to questioning her powers, but this dinner had been almost impromptu, and she had been in doubt.  It was quite unnecessary, for her dinner carried with it the added virtue of being the last of the season, an encore to all that had gone before ­a special number by request on the social programme.  It was not one of many others stretching on for weeks, for the summer’s change and leisure began on the morrow, and there was nothing hanging over her guests that they must go on to later.  They knew that their luggage stood ready locked and strapped at home; they could look before them to the whole summer’s pleasure, and they were relaxed and ready to be pleased, and broke simultaneously into a low murmur of talk and laughter.  The windows of the dining-room stood open from the floor, and from the tiny garden that surrounded the house, even in the great mass of stucco and brick of encircling London, came the odor of flowers and of fresh turf.  A soft summer-night wind moved the candles under their red shades; and gently as though they rose from afar, and not only from across the top of the high wall before the house, came the rumble of the omnibuses passing farther into the suburbs, and the occasional quick rush of a hansom over the smooth asphalt.  It was a most delightful choice of people, gathered at short notice and to do honor to no one in particular, but to give each a chance to say good-by before he or she met the yacht at Southampton or took the club train to Homburg.  They all knew each other very well; and if there was a guest of the evening, it was one of the two Americans ­either Miss Egerton, the girl who was to marry Lord Arbuthnot, whose mother sat on Trevelyan’s right, or young Gordon, the explorer, who has just come out of Africa.  Miss Egerton was a most strikingly beautiful girl, with a strong, fine face, and an earnest, interested way when she spoke, which the English found most attractive.  In appearance she had been variously likened by Trevelyan, who was painting her portrait, to a druidess, a vestal virgin, and a Greek goddess; and Lady Arbuthnot’s friends, who thought to please the girl, assured her that no one would ever suppose her to be an American ­their ideas of the American young woman having been gathered from those who pick out tunes with one finger on the pianos in the public parlors of the Metropole.  Miss Egerton was said to be intensely interested in her lover’s career, and was as ambitious for his success in the House as he was himself.  They were both very much in love, and showed it to others as little as people of their class do.  The others at the table were General Sir Henry Kent; Phillips, the novelist; the Austrian Minister and his young wife; and Trevelyan, who painted portraits for large sums of money and figure pieces for art; and some simply fashionable smart people who were good listeners, and who were rather disappointed that the American explorer was no more sun-burned than other young men who had stayed at home, and who had gone in for tennis or yachting.

The worst of Gordon was that he made it next to impossible for one to lionize him.  He had been back in civilization and London only two weeks, unless Cairo and Shepheard’s Hotel are civilization, and he had been asked everywhere, and for the first week had gone everywhere.  But whenever his hostess looked for him, to present another and not so recent a lion, he was generally found either humbly carrying an ice to some neglected dowager, or talking big game or international yachting or tailors to a circle of younger sons in the smoking-room, just as though several hundred attractive and distinguished people were not waiting to fling the speeches they had prepared on Africa at him, in the drawing-room above.  He had suddenly disappeared during the second week of his stay in London, which was also the last week of the London season, and managers of lecture tours and publishers and lion-hunters, and even friends who cared for him for himself, had failed to find him at his lodgings.  Trevelyan, who had known him when he was a travelling correspondent and artist for one of the great weeklies, had found him at the club the night before, and had asked him to his wife’s impromptu dinner, from which he had at first begged off, but, on learning who was to be there, had changed his mind and accepted.  Mrs. Trevelyan was very glad he had come; she had always spoken of him as a nice boy, and now that he had become famous she liked him none the less, but did not show it before people as much as she had been used to do.  She forgot to ask him whether he knew his beautiful compatriot or not; but she took it for granted that they had met, if not at home, at least in London, as they had both been made so much of, and at the same houses.

The dinner was well on its way towards its end, and the women had begun to talk across the table, and to exchange bankers’ addresses, and to say “Be sure and look us up in Paris,” and “When do you expect to sail from Cowes?” They were enlivened and interested, and the present odors of the food and flowers and wine, and the sense of leisure before them, made it seem almost a pity that such a well-suited gathering should have to separate for even a summer’s pleasure.

The Austrian Minister was saying this to his hostess, when Sir Henry Kent, who had been talking across to Phillips, the novelist, leaned back in his place and said, as though to challenge the attention of every one, “I can’t agree with you, Phillips.  I am sure no one else will.”

“Dear me,” complained Mrs. Trevelyan, plaintively, “what have you been saying now, Mr. Phillips?  He always has such debatable theories,” she explained.

“On the contrary, Mrs. Trevelyan,” answered the novelist, “it is the other way.  It is Sir Henry who is making all the trouble.  He is attacking one of the oldest and dearest platitudes I know.”  He paused for the general to speak, but the older man nodded his head for him to go on.  “He has just said that fiction is stranger than truth,” continued the novelist.  “He says that I ­that people who write could never interest people who read if they wrote of things as they really are.  They select, he says ­they take the critical moment in a man’s life and the crises, and want others to believe that that is what happens every day.  Which it is not, so the general says.  He thinks that life is commonplace and uneventful ­that is, uneventful in a picturesque or dramatic way.  He admits that women’s lives are saved from drowning, but that they are not saved by their lovers, but by a longshoreman with a wife and six children, who accepts five pounds for doing it.  That’s it, is it not?” he asked.

The general nodded and smiled.  “What I said to Phillips was,” he explained, “that if things were related just as they happen, they would not be interesting.  People do not say the dramatic things they say on the stage or in novels; in real life they are commonplace or sordid ­or disappointing.  I have seen men die on the battle-field, for instance, and they never cried, ‘I die that my country may live,’ or ‘I have got my promotion at last;’ they just stared up at the surgeon and said, ‘Have I got to lose that arm?’ or ’I am killed, I think.’  You see, when men are dying around you, and horses are plunging, and the batteries are firing, one doesn’t have time to think up the appropriate remark for the occasion.  I don’t believe, now, that Pitt’s last words were, ‘Roll up the map of Europe.’  A man who could change the face of a continent would not use his dying breath in making epigrams.  It was one of his secretaries or one of the doctors who said that.  And the man who was capable of writing home, ’All is lost but honor,’ was just the sort of a man who would lose more battles than he would win.  No; you, Phillips,” said the general, raising his voice as he became more confident and conscious that be held the centre of the stage, “and you, Trevelyan, don’t write and paint every-day things as they are.  You introduce something for a contrast or for an effect; a red coat in a landscape for the bit of color you want, when in real life the red coat would not be within miles; or you have a band of music playing a popular air in the street when a murder is going on inside the house.  You do it because it is effective; but it isn’t true.  Now Mr. Caithness was telling us the other night at the club, on this very matter ­”

“Oh, that’s hardly fair,” laughed Trevelyan; “you’ve rehearsed all this before.  You’ve come prepared.”

“No, not at all,” frowned the general, sweeping on.  “He said that before he was raised to the bench, when he practised criminal law, he had brought word to a man that he was to be reprieved, and to another that he was to die.  Now, you know,” exclaimed the general, with a shrug, and appealing to the table, “how that would be done on the stage or in a novel, with the prisoner bound ready for execution, and a galloping horse, and a fluttering piece of white paper, and all that.  Well, now, Caithness told us that he went into the man’s cell and said, ‘You have been reprieved, John,’ or William, or whatever the fellow’s name was.  And the man looked at him and said:  ’Is that so?  That’s good ­that’s good;’ and that was all he said.  And then, again, he told one man whose life he had tried very hard to save:  ’The Home Secretary has refused to intercede for you.  I saw him at his house last night at nine o’clock.’  And the murderer, instead of saying, ’My God! what will my wife and children do?’ looked at him, and repeated, ‘At nine o’clock last night!’ just as though that were the important part of the message.”

“Well, but, general,” said Phillips, smiling, “that’s dramatic enough as it is, I think.  Why ­”

“Yes,” interrupted the general, quickly and triumphantly.  “But that is not what you would have made him say, is it?  That’s my point.”

“There was a man told me once,” Lord Arbuthnot began, leisurely ­“he was a great chum of mine, and it illustrates what Sir Henry has said, I think ­he was engaged to a girl, and he had a misunderstanding or an understanding with her that opened both their eyes, at a dance, and the next afternoon he called, and they talked it over in the drawing-room, with the tea-tray between them, and agreed to end it.  On the stage he would have risen and said, ’Well, the comedy is over, the tragedy begins, or the curtain falls;’ and she would have gone to the piano and played Chopin sadly while he made his exit.  Instead of which he got up to go without saying anything, and as he rose he upset a cup and saucer on the tea-table, and said, ‘Oh, I beg your pardon;’ and she said, ‘It isn’t broken;’ and he went out.  You see,” the young man added, smiling, “there were two young people whose hearts were breaking, and yet they talked of teacups, not because they did not feel, but because custom is too strong on us and too much for us.  We do not say dramatic things or do theatrical ones.  It does not make interesting reading, but it is the truth.”

“Exactly,” cut in the Austrian Minister, eagerly.  “And then there is the prerogative of the author and of the playwright to drop a curtain whenever he wants to, or to put a stop to everything by ending the chapter.  That isn’t fair.  That is an advantage over nature.  When some one accuses some one else of doing something dreadful at the play, down comes the curtain quick and keeps things at fever point, or the chapter ends with a lot of stars, and the next page begins with a description of a sunset two weeks later.  To be true, we ought to be told what the man who is accused said in the reply, or what happened during those two weeks before the sunset.  The author really has no right to choose only the critical moments, and to shut out the commonplace, every-day life by a sort of literary closure.  That is, if he claims to tell the truth.”

Phillips raised his eyebrows and looked carefully around the table.  “Does any one else feel called upon to testify?” he asked.

“It’s awful, isn’t it, Phillips,” laughed Trevelyan, comfortably, “to find that the photographer is the only artist, after all?  I feel very guilty.”

“You ought to,” pronounced the general, gayly.  He was very well satisfied with himself at having held his own against these clever people.  “And I am sure Mr. Gordon will agree with me, too,” he went on, confidently, with a bow towards the younger man.  “He has seen more of the world than any of us, and he will tell you, I am sure, that what happens only suggests the story; it is not complete in itself.  That it always needs the author’s touch, just as the rough diamond ­”

“Oh, thanks, thanks, general,” laughed Phillips.  “My feelings are not hurt as badly as that.”

Gordon had been turning the stem of a wineglass slowly between his thumb and his finger while the others were talking, and looking down at it smiling.  Now he raised his eyes as though he meant to speak, and then dropped them again.  “I am afraid, Sir Henry,” he said, “that I don’t agree with you at all.”

Those who had said nothing felt a certain satisfaction that they had not committed themselves.  The Austrian Minister tried to remember what it was he had said, and whether it was too late to retreat, and the general looked blankly at Gordon and said, “Indeed?”

“You shouldn’t have called on that last witness, Sir Henry,” said Phillips, smiling.  “Your case was very good as it was.”

“I am quite sure,” said Gordon, seriously, “that the story Phillips will never write is a true story, but he will not write it because people would say it is impossible, just as you have all seen sunsets sometimes that you knew would be laughed at if any one tried to paint them.  We all know such a story, something in our own lives, or in the lives of our friends.  Not ghost stories, or stories of adventure, but of ambitions that come to nothing, of people who were rewarded or punished in this world instead of in the next, and love stories.”

Phillips looked at the young man keenly and smiled.  “Especially love stories,” he said.

Gordon looked back at him as if he did not understand.

“Tell it, Gordon,” said Mr. Trevelyan.

“Yes,” said Gordon, nodding his head in assent, “I was thinking of a particular story.  It is as complete, I think, and as dramatic as any of those we read.  It is about a man I met in Africa.  It is not a long story,” he said, looking around the table tentatively, “but it ends badly.”

There was a silence much more appreciated than a polite murmur of invitation would have been, and the simply smart people settled themselves rigidly to catch every word for future use.  They realized that this would be a story which had not as yet appeared in the newspapers, and which would not make a part of Gordon’s book.  Mrs. Trevelyan smiled encouragingly upon her former protege; she was sure he was going to do himself credit; but the American girl chose this chance, when all the other eyes were turned expectantly towards the explorer, to look at her lover.

“We were on our return march from Lake Tchad to the Mobangi,” said Gordon.  “We had been travelling over a month, sometimes by water and sometimes through the forest, and we did not expect to see any other white men besides those of our own party for several months to come.  In the middle of a jungle late one afternoon I found this man lying at the foot of a tree.  He had been cut and beaten and left for dead.  It was as much of a surprise to me, you understand, as it would be to you if you were driving through Trafalgar Square in a hansom, and an African lion should spring up on your horses’ haunches.  We believed we were the only white men that had ever succeeded in getting that far south.  Crampel had tried it, and no one knows yet whether he is dead or alive; Doctor Schlemen had been eaten by cannibals, and Major Bethume had turned back two hundred miles farther north; and we could no more account for this man’s presence than if he had been dropped from the clouds.  Lieutenant Royce, my surgeon, went to work at him, and we halted where we were for the night.  In about an hour the man moved and opened his eyes.  He looked up at us and said, ’Thank God!’ ­because we were white, I suppose ­and went off into unconsciousness again.  When he came to the next time, he asked Royce, in a whisper, how long he had to live.  He wasn’t the sort of a man you had to lie to about a thing like that, and Royce told him he did not think he could live for more than an hour or two.  The man moved his head to show that he understood, and raised his hand to his throat and began pulling at his shirt, but the effort sent him off into a fainting-fit again.  I opened his collar for him as gently as I could, and found that his fingers had clinched around a silver necklace that he wore about his neck, and from which there hung a gold locket shaped like a heart.”

Gordon raised his eyes slowly from the observation of his finger-tips as they rested on the edge of the table before him to those of the American girl who sat opposite.  She had heard his story so far without any show of attention, and had been watching, rather with a touch of fondness in her eyes, the clever, earnest face of Arbuthnot, who was following Gordon’s story with polite interest.  But now, at Gordon’s last words, she turned her eyes to him with a look of awful indignation, which was followed, when she met his calmly polite look of inquiry, by one of fear and almost of entreaty.

“When the man came to,” continued Gordon, in the same conventional monotone, “he begged me to take the chain and locket to a girl whom he said I would find either in London or in New York.  He gave me the address of her banker.  He said:  ’Take it off my neck before you bury me; tell her I wore it ever since she gave it to me.  That it has been a charm and loadstone to me.  That when the locket rose and fell against my breast, it was as if her heart were pressing against mine and answering the beating and throbbing of the blood in my veins.’”

Gordon paused, and returned to the thoughtful scrutiny of his finger-tips.

“The man did not die,” he said, raising his head.  “Royce brought him back into such form again that in about a week we were able to take him along with us on a litter.  But he was very weak, and would lie for hours sleeping when we rested, or mumbling and raving in a fever.  We learned from him at odd times that he had been trying to reach Lake Tchad, to do what we had done, without any means of doing it.  He had had not more than a couple of dozen porters and a corporal’s guard of Senegalese soldiers.  He was the only white man in the party, and his men had turned on him, and left him as we found him, carrying off with them his stock of provisions and arms.  He had undertaken the expedition on a promise from the French government to make him governor of the territory he opened up if he succeeded, but he had had no official help.  If he failed, he got nothing; if he succeeded, he did so at his own expense and by his own endeavors.  It was only a wonder he had been able to get as far as he did.  He did not seem to feel the failure of his expedition.  All that was lost in the happiness of getting back alive to this woman with whom he was in love.  He had been three days alone before we found him, and in those three days, while he waited for death, he had thought of nothing but that he would never see her again.  He had resigned himself to this, had given up all hope, and our coming seemed like a miracle to him.  I have read about men in love, I have seen it on the stage, I have seen it in real life, but I never saw a man so grateful to God and so happy and so insane over a woman as this man was.  He raved about her when he was feverish, and he talked and talked to me about her when he was in his senses.  The porters could not understand him, and he found me sympathetic, I suppose, or else he did not care, and only wanted to speak of her to some one, and so he told me the story over and over again as I walked beside the litter, or as we sat by the fire at night.  She must have been a very remarkable girl.  He had met her first the year before, on one of the Italian steamers that ply from New York to Gibraltar.  She was travelling with her father, who was an invalid going to Tangier for his health; from Tangier they were to go on up to Nice and Cannes, and in the spring to Paris and on to London for this season just over.  The man was going from Gibraltar to Zanzibar, and then on into the Congo.  They had met the first night out; they had separated thirteen days later at Gibraltar, and in that time the girl had fallen in love with him, and had promised to marry him if he would let her, for he was very proud.  He had to be.  He had absolutely nothing to offer her.  She is very well known at home.  I mean her family is:  they have lived in New York from its first days, and they are very rich.  The girl had lived a life as different from his as the life of a girl in society must be from that of a vagabond.  He had been an engineer, a newspaper correspondent, an officer in a Chinese army, and had built bridges in South America, and led their little revolutions there, and had seen service on the desert in the French army of Algiers.  He had no home or nationality even, for he had left America when he was sixteen; he had no family, had saved no money, and was trusting everything to the success of this expedition into Africa to make him known and to give him position.  It was the story of Othello and Desdemona over again.  His blackness lay from her point of view, or rather would have lain from the point of view of her friends, in the fact that he was as helplessly ineligible a young man as a cowboy.  And he really had lived a life of which he had no great reason to be proud.  He had existed entirely for excitement, as other men live to drink until they kill themselves by it; nothing he had done had counted for much except his bridges.  They are still standing.  But the things he had written are lost in the columns of the daily papers.  The soldiers he had fought with knew him only as a man who cared more for the fighting than for what the fighting was about, and he had been as ready to write on one side as to fight on the other.  He was a rolling stone, and had been a rolling stone from the time he was sixteen and had run away to sea, up to the day he had met this girl, when he was just thirty.  Yet you can see how such a man would attract a young, impressionable girl, who had met only those men whose actions are bounded by the courts of law or Wall Street, or the younger set who drive coaches and who live the life of the clubs.  She had gone through life as some people go through picture-galleries, with their catalogues marked at the best pictures.  She knew nothing of the little fellows whose work was skied, who were trying to be known, who were not of her world, but who toiled and prayed and hoped to be famous.  This man came into her life suddenly with his stories of adventure and strange people and strange places, of things done for the love of doing them and not for the reward or reputation, and he bewildered her at first, I suppose, and then fascinated, and then won her.  You can imagine how it was, these two walking the deck together during the day, or sitting side by side when the night came on, the ocean stretched before them.  The daring of his present undertaking, the absurd glamour that is thrown over those who have gone into that strange country from which some travellers return, and the picturesqueness of his past life.  It is no wonder the girl made too much of him.  I do not think he knew what was coming.  He did not pose before her.  I am quite sure, from what I knew of him, that he did not.  Indeed, I believed him when he said that he had fought against the more than interest she had begun to show for him.  He was the sort of man women care for, but they had not been of this woman’s class or calibre.  It came to him like a sign from the heavens.  It was as if a goddess had stooped to him.  He told her when they separated that if he succeeded ­if he opened this unknown country, if he was rewarded as they had promised to reward him ­he might dare to come to her; and she called him her knight-errant, and gave him her chain and locket to wear, and told him, whether he failed or succeeded it meant nothing to her, and that her life was his while it lasted, and her soul as well.

“I think,” Gordon said, stopping abruptly, with an air of careful consideration, “that those were her words as he repeated them to me.”

He raised his eyes thoughtfully towards the face of the girl opposite, and then glanced past her, as if he were trying to recall the words the man had used.  The fine, beautiful face of the woman was white and drawn around the lips, and she gave a quick, appealing glance at her hostess, as if she would beg to be allowed to go.  But Mrs. Trevelyan and her guests were watching Gordon or toying with the things in front of them.  The dinner had been served, and not even the soft movements of the servants interrupted the young man’s story.

“You can imagine a man,” Gordon went on, more lightly, “finding a hansom cab slow when he is riding from the station to see the woman he loves; but imagine this man urging himself and the rest of us to hurry when we were in the heart of Africa, with six months’ travel in front of us before we could reach the first limits of civilization.  That is what this man did.  When he was still on his litter he used to toss and turn, and abuse the bearers and porters and myself because we moved so slowly.  When we stopped for the night he would chafe and fret at the delay; and when the morning came he was the first to wake, if he slept at all, and eager to push on.  When at last he was able to walk, he worked himself into a fever again, and it was only when Royce warned him that he would kill himself if he kept on that he submitted to be carried, and forced himself to be patient.  And all the time the poor devil kept saying how unworthy he was of her, how miserably he had wasted his years, how unfitted he was for the great happiness which had come into his life.  I suppose every man says that when he is in love; very properly, too; but the worst of it was, in this man’s case, that it was so very true.  He was unworthy of her in everything but his love for her.  It used to frighten me to see how much he cared.  Well, we got out of it at last, and reached Alexandria, and saw white faces once more, and heard women’s voices, and the strain and fear of failure were over, and we could breathe again.  I was quite ready enough to push on to London, but we had to wait a week for the steamer, and during that time that man made my life miserable.  He had done so well, and would have done so much more if he had had my equipment, that I tried to see that he received all the credit due him.  But he would have none of the public receptions, and the audience with the khédive, or any of the fuss they made over us.  He only wanted to get back to her.  He spent the days on the quay watching them load the steamer, and counting the hours until she was to sail; and even at night he would leave the first bed he had slept in for six months, and would come into my room and ask me if I would not sit up and talk with him until daylight.  You see, after he had given up all thought of her, and believed himself about to die without seeing her again, it made her all the dearer, I suppose, and made him all the more fearful of losing her again.

“He became very quiet as soon as we were really under way, and Royce and I hardly knew him for the same man.  He would sit in silence in his steamer-chair for hours, looking out at the sea and smiling to himself, and sometimes, for he was still very weak and feverish, the tears would come to his eyes and run down his cheeks.  ’This is the way we would sit,’ he said to me one night, ’with the dark purple sky and the strange Southern stars over our heads, and the rail of the boat rising and sinking below the line of the horizon.  And I can hear her voice, and I try to imagine she is still sitting there, as she did the last night out, when I held her hands between mine.’” Gordon paused a moment, and then went on more slowly:  “I do not know whether it was that the excitement of the journey overland had kept him up or not, but as we went on he became much weaker and slept more, until Royce became anxious and alarmed about him.  But he did not know it himself; he had grown so sure of his recovery then that he did not understand what the weakness meant.  He fell off into long spells of sleep or unconsciousness, and woke only to be fed, and would then fall back to sleep again.  And in one of these spells of unconsciousness he died.  He died within two days of land.  He had no home and no country and no family, as I told you, and we buried him at sea.  He left nothing behind him, for the very clothes he wore were those we had given him ­nothing but the locket and the chain which he had told me to take from his neck when he died.”

Gordon’s voice had grown very cold and hard.  He stopped and ran his fingers down into his pocket and pulled out a little leather bag.  The people at the table watched him in silence as he opened it and took out a dull silver chain with a gold heart hanging from it.

“This is it,” he said, gently.  He leaned across the table, with his eyes fixed on those of the American girl, and dropped the chain in front of her.  “Would you like to see it?” he said.

The rest moved curiously forward to look at the little heap of gold and silver as it lay on the white cloth.  But the girl, with her eyes half closed and her lips pressed together, pushed it on with her hand to the man who sat next her, and bowed her head slightly, as though it was an effort for her to move at all.  The wife of the Austrian Minister gave a little sigh of relief.

“I should say your story did end badly, Mr. Gordon,” she said.  “It is terribly sad, and so unnecessarily so.”

“I don’t know,” said Lady Arbuthnot, thoughtfully ­“I don’t know; it seems to me it was better.  As Mr. Gordon says, the man was hardly worthy of her.  A man should have something more to offer a woman than love; it is a woman’s prerogative to be loved.  Any number of men may love her; it is nothing to their credit:  they cannot help themselves.”

“Well,” said General Kent, “if all true stories turn out as badly as that one does, I will take back what I said against those the story-writers tell.  I prefer the ones Anstey and Jerome make up.  I call it a most unpleasant story.”

“But it isn’t finished yet,” said Gordon, as he leaned over and picked up the chain and locket.  “There is still a little more.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” said the wife of the Austrian Minister, eagerly.  “But then,” she added, “you can’t make it any better.  You cannot bring the man back to life.”

“No,” said Gordon, “but I can make it a little worse.”

“Ah, I see,” said Phillips, with a story-teller’s intuition ­“the girl.”

“The first day I reached London I went to her banker’s and got her address,” continued Gordon.  “And I wrote, saying I wanted to see her, but before I could get an answer I met her the next afternoon at a garden-party.  At least I did not meet her; she was pointed out to me.  I saw a very beautiful girl surrounded by a lot of men, and asked who she was, and found out it was the woman I had written to, the owner of the chain and locket; and I was also told that her engagement had just been announced to a young Englishman of family and position, who had known her only a few months, and with whom she was very much in love.  So you see,” he went on, smiling, “that it was better that he died, believing in her and in her love for him.  Mr. Phillips, now, would have let him live to return and find her married; but Nature is kinder than writers of fiction, and quite as dramatic.”

Phillips did not reply to this, and the general only shook his head doubtfully and said nothing.  So Mrs. Trevelyan looked at Lady Arbuthnot, and the ladies rose and left the room.  When the men had left them, a young girl went to the piano, and the other women seated themselves to listen; but Miss Egerton, saying that it was warm, stepped out through one of the high windows on to the little balcony that overhung the garden.  It was dark out there and cool, and the rumbling of the encircling city sounded as distant and as far off as the reflection seemed that its million lights threw up to the sky above.  The girl leaned her face and bare shoulder against the rough stone wall of the house, and pressed her hands together, with her fingers locking and unlocking and her rings cutting through her gloves.  She was trembling slightly, and the blood in her veins was hot and tingling.  She heard the voices of the men as they entered the drawing-room, the momentary cessation of the music at the piano, and its renewal, and then a figure blocked the light from the window, and Gordon stepped out of it and stood in front of her with the chain and locket in his hand.  He held it towards her, and they faced each other for a moment in silence.

“Will you take it now?” he said.

The girl raised her head, and drew herself up until she stood straight and tall before him.  “Have you not punished me enough?” she asked, in a whisper.  “Are you not satisfied?  Was it brave?  Was it manly?  Is that what you have learned among your savages ­to torture a woman?” She stopped with a quick sob of pain, and pressed her hands against her breast.

Gordon observed her, curiously, with cold consideration.  “What of the sufferings of the man to whom you gave this?” he asked.  “Why not consider him?  What was your bad quarter of an hour at the table, with your friends around you, to the year he suffered danger and physical pain for you ­for you, remember?”

The girl hid her face for a moment in her hands, and when she lowered them again her cheeks were wet and her voice was changed and softer.  “They told me he was dead,” she said.  “Then it was denied, and then the French papers told of it again, and with horrible detail, and how it happened.”

Gordon took a step nearer her.  “And does your love come and go with the editions of the daily papers?” he asked, fiercely.  “If they say to-morrow morning that Arbuthnot is false to his principles or his party, that he is a bribe-taker, a man who sells his vote, will you believe them and stop loving him?” He gave a sharp exclamation of disdain.  “Or will you wait,” he went on, bitterly, “until the Liberal organs have had time to deny it?  Is that the love, the life, and the soul you promised the man who ­”

There was a soft step on the floor of the drawing-room, and the tall figure of young Arbuthnot appeared in the opening of the window as he looked doubtfully out into the darkness.  Gordon took a step back into the light of the window, where he could be seen, and leaned easily against the railing of the balcony.  His eyes were turned towards the street, and he noticed over the wall the top of a passing omnibus and the glow of the men’s pipes who sat on it.

“Miss Egerton?” asked Arbuthnot, his eyes still blinded by the lights of the room he had left.  “Is she here?  Oh, is that you?” he said, as he saw the movement of the white dress.  “I was sent to look for you,” he said.  “They were afraid something was wrong.”  He turned to Gordon, as if in explanation of his lover-like solicitude.  “It has been rather a hard week, and it has kept one pretty well on the go all the time, and I thought Miss Egerton looked tired at dinner.”

The moment he had spoken, the girl came towards him quickly, and put her arm inside of his, and took his hand.

He looked down at her wonderingly at this show of affection, and then drew her nearer, and said, gently, “You are tired, aren’t you?  I came to tell you that Lady Arbuthnot is going.  She is waiting for you.”

It struck Gordon, as they stood there, how handsome they were and how well suited.  They took a step towards the window, and then the young nobleman turned and looked out at the pretty garden and up at the sky, where the moon was struggling against the glare of the city.

“It is very pretty and peaceful out here,” he said, “is it not?  It seems a pity to leave it.  Good-night, Gordon, and thank you for your story.”  He stopped, with one foot on the threshold, and smiled.  “And yet, do you know,” he said, “I cannot help thinking you were guilty of doing just what you accused Phillips of doing.  I somehow thought you helped the true story out a little.  Now didn’t you?  Was it all just as you told it?  Or am I wrong?”

“No,” Gordon answered; “you are right.  I did change it a little, in one particular.”

“And what was that, may I ask?” said Arbuthnot.

“The man did not die,” Gordon answered.

Arbuthnot gave a quick little sigh of sympathy.  “Poor devil!” he said, softly; “poor chap!” He moved his left hand over and touched the hand of the girl, as though to reassure himself of his own good fortune.  Then he raised his eyes to Gordon’s with a curious, puzzled look in them.  “But then,” he said, doubtfully, “if he is not dead, how did you come to get the chain?”

The girl’s arm within his own moved slightly, and her fingers tightened their hold upon his hand.

“Oh,” said Gordon, indifferently, “it did not mean anything to him, you see, when he found he had lost her, and it could not mean anything to her.  It is of no value.  It means nothing to any one ­except, perhaps, to me.”