and thinking it would be pleasant to play the other part for a
while--after dinner he went straight to Miss Liston, talked to

her while we had coffee on the terrace, and then walked about
with her. Pamela sat by me; she was very silent; she did not

appear to be angry, but her handsome mouth wore a resolute
expression. Chillington and Miss Liston wandered on into the

shrubbery, and did not come into sight again for nearly half an
hour.

"I think it's cold," said Pamela, in her cool, quiet tones. "And
it's also, Mr. Wynne, rather slow. I shall go to bed."

I thought it a little impertinent of Pamela to attribute the
"slowness" (which had undoubtedly existed) to me, so I took

my revenge by saying with an assumption of innocence purposely
and obviously unreal:

"Oh, but won't you wait and bid Miss Liston and Chillington
goodnight?"

Pamela looked at me for a moment. I made bold to smile.
Pamela's face broke slowly into an answering smile.

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Wynne," said she.
"No?" said I.

"No," said Pamela, and she turned away. But before she went she
looked over her shoulder, and still smiling, said, "Wish Miss

Liston good-night for me, Mr. Wynne. Anything I have to say to
Sir Gilbert will wait very well till to-morrow."

She had hardly gone in when the wanderers came out of the
shrubbery and rejoined me. Chillington wore his usual passive

look, but Miss Liston's face was happy and radiant. Chillington
passed on into the drawing room. Miss Liston lingered a

moment by me.
"Why, you look," said I, "as if you'd invented the finest scene

ever written."
She did not answer me directly, but stood looking up at the

stars. Then she said, in a dreamy tone:
"I think I shall stick to my old idea in the book."

As she spoke, Chillington came out. Even in the dim light I saw
a frown on his face.

"I say, Wynne," said he, "where's Miss Myles?"
"She's gone to bed," I answered. "She told me to wish you good

night for her, Miss Liston. No message for you, Chillington."
Miss Liston's eyes were on him. He took no notice of her; he

stood frowning for an instant, then, with some muttered
ejaculation, he strode back into the house. We heard his heavy

tread across the drawing room; we heard the door slammed behind
him, and I found myself looking on Miss Liston's altered face.

"What does he want her for, I wonder!" she said, in an agitation
that made my presence, my thoughts, my suspicions, nothing to

her. "He said nothing to me about wanting to speak to her to-
night." And she walked slowly into the house, her eyes on the

ground, and all the light gone from her face, and the joy dead in
it. Whereupon I, left alone, began to rail at the gods that a

dear, silly little soul like Miss Liston should bother her poor,
silly little head about a hulking fool; in which reflections I

did, of course, immenseinjustice not only to an eminent author,
but also to a perfectly honorable, though somewhat dense and

decidedly conceited, gentleman.
The next morning Sir Gilbert Chillington ate dirt--there is no

other way of expressing it--in great quantities and with infinite
humility.

My admirable friend Miss Pamela was severe. I saw him walk six
yards behind her for the length of the terrace: not a look nor a

turn of her head gave him leave to join her. Miss Liston
had gone upstairs, and I watched the scene from the window of the

smoking room. At last, at the end of the long walk, just where
the laurel-bushes mark the beginning of the shrubberies--on the

threshold of the scene of his crime--Pamela turned round suddenly
and faced the repentant sinner. The most interesting things in

life are those which, perhaps by the inevitable nature of the
case, one does not hear; and I did not hear the scene which

followed. For a while they stood talking--rather, he talked and
she listened. Then she turned again and walked slowly into the

shrubbery. Chillington followed. It was the end of a chapter,
and I laid down the book.

How and from whom Miss Liston heard the news which Chillington
himself told me, without a glimmer of shame or a touch of

embarrassment, some two hours later, I do not know; but hear it
she did before luncheon; for she came down, ready armed with

the neatest little speeches for both the happy lovers.
I did not expect Pamela to show an ounce more feeling than the

strictest canons of propriety demanded, and she fulfilled my
expectations to the letter; but I had hoped, I confess, that

Chillington would have displayed some little consciousness. He
did not; and it is my belief that, throughout the events which I

have recorded, he retained, and that he still retains, the
conviction that Miss Liston's interest in him was purely literary

and artistic, and that she devoted herself to his society simply
because he offered an interesting problem and an inspiring theme.

An ingeniouscharity may find in that attitude evidence of
modesty; to my thinking, it argues a more subtle and magnificent

conceit than if he had fathomed the truth, as many humbler men in
his place would have done.

On the day after the engagement was accomplished Miss Liston left
us to return to London. She came out in her hat and jacket

and sat down by me; the carriage was to be round in ten minutes.
She put on her gloves slowly and buttoned them carefully. This

done, she said:
"By the way, Mr. Wynne, I've adopted your suggestion. The man

doesn't find out."
"Then you've made him a fool?" I asked bluntly.

"No," she answered. "I--I think it might happen though he wasn't
a fool."

She sat with her hands in her lap for a moment or two, then she
went on, in a lower voice:

"I'm going to make him find out afterward."
I felt her glance on me, but I looked straight in front of me.

"What, after he's married the shallow girl?"
"Yes," said Miss Liston.

"Rather too late, isn't it? At least, if you mean there is to be
a happy ending."

Miss Liston enlaced her fingers.
"I haven't decided about the ending yet," said she.

"If you're intent to be tragical--which is the fashion--you'll do
as you stand," said I.

"Yes," she answered slowly, "if I'm tragical, I shall do as I
stand."

There was another pause, and rather a long one; the wheels of the
carriage were audible on the gravel of the front drive. Miss

Liston stood up. I rose and held out my hand.
"Of course," said Miss Liston, still intent on her novel, "I

could----" She stopped again, and looked apprehensively at me.
My face, I believe, expressed nothing more than polite attention

and friendly interest.
"Of course," she began again, "the shallow girl--his wife--

might--might die, Mr. Wynne."
"In novels," said I with a smile, "while there's death, there's

hope."
"Yes, in novels," she answered, giving me her hand.

The poor little woman was very unhappy. Unwisely, I dare say, I
pressed her hand. It was enough, the tears leaped to her

eyes; she gave my great fist a hurried squeeze--I have seldom
been more touched by any thanks, how ever warm or eloquent--and

hurried away.