“Our final terms,” said Loring concisely, looking at Ramsay, who nodded nonchalantly in confirmation of the words. A silence ensued. Julian sat staring down at the table, his brows knit, evidently in close thought. At last he glanced up suddenly at the two men who had been waiting carelessly for his decision. “I call it rather rough,” he said brusquely; “but--all right. If the thing looks all right when you’ve trotted it out, I accept.” He passed on instantly, with a brief, telling question, to the inner working of the scheme. There is perhaps nothing by which self-revelation is more frankly and unconsciously made than through the means by which a man may be most easily roused to enthusiasm. Enthusiasm--a genuine quickening of his mental pulses, even--had been a condition of things practically unknown to the easy-going, commonplace Julian Romayne of a year before; but in the course of the last two months he had experienced it often. To hear of large sums of money, large profits, rapid returns on striking investments, touched him, instinctively, as a record of artistic achievements will touch an artist, as triumphs of research will touch an historian, as prodigies of physical prowess will touch an athlete. And as Loring answered him now, and went on with fuller and more technical detail, his face changed strikingly. His eyes brightened, and an eager, fascinated light came into them; he leant farther forward, listening, commenting, questioning, with quick and always increasing excitement. Half an hour passed, and still the three men sat about the table, talking in terse, businesslike fashion; three-quarters of an hour, an hour. At the end of that time, Julian, his face flushed and eager, his eyes glistening and sparkling, his hand absolutely shaking with excitement, was holding that hand out to Mr. Ramsay with a gesture which witnessed to the work of that hour, as volumes could not have done. As far as words went, he and Mr. Ramsay had hardly exchanged three sentences; it was the bond that lay behind the words that had drawn them together. Mr. Ramsay had spoken very little, indeed, but his silent presence had never for a moment seemed superfluous, or without a certain indefinite weight; and there was a dull approval in his slow eyes now as he turned them on the young man. “We’ve settled so much, then,” said Julian, in a quick, familiar way, “and we meet here on Thursday at two. Until then----” He turned to Loring, and stretched out his hand eagerly. “Thanks, old man,” he said in a low, quick voice. “Thanks.” CHAPTER II Miss Pomeroy’s visit to Mrs. Romayne was postponed for a fortnight. At one time, indeed, it seemed not impossible that Mrs. Pomeroy’s visit to her sister in Devonshire might be postponed indefinitely, and Mrs. Romayne was charmingly inconsolable over her prospective disappointment.