'You were wishing you were travelling again, I suppose,' said I, in a tone which fear caused to sound hard. 'Oh no, at least not exactly,' said the poor child, not liking to confess the feverish longing for change and movement which had seized upon her like a disease. I remained silent for a few minutes, struggling with hard facts, my hands clasped together, my arms resting on my knees. Then I said without moving, in a voice that was husky in spite of all my efforts-- 'Babiole, tell me, on your word of honour, are you thinking about that man still?' I could hear her breath coming in quick sobs. Then she moved, and her fingers held out something right under my averted eyes. It was the one note she had received from Fabian Scott, worn into four little pieces. 'Look here, dear,' I said, having signified by a bend of the head that I understood, 'do you think a man like that would be likely to make a good husband?' 'Oh no,' readily and sadly. 'But you would be his wife all the same?' 'Oh, Mr. Maude!' in a low trembling voice, as if Paradise had been suddenly thrown open to mortal sight. I got up. 'Well, well,' I said, trying to speak in a jesting tone, 'I suppose these things will be explained in a better world!' Mrs. Ellmer came in at that moment, and the leave-taking for the day was easier. 'Won't you stay and lunch with us, Mr. Maude? I've just been preparing something nice for you,' she said with disappointment. 'Thank you, no, I can't stay this morning. The fact is I have to start for London this afternoon, and I haven't a minute to lose.' Babiole started, and her eyes, as I turned to her to shake hands, shone like stars. 'Good-bye, Mr. Maude,' she faltered, taking my hand in both hers, and pressing it feverishly. And she looked into my face without any inquiry in her gaze, but with a subdued hope and a boundless gratitude. Mrs. Ellmer insisted on coming over to the house to see that everything was properly packed for me. As I left the cottage with her I looked back, and saw the little face, with its weird expression of eagerness, pressed against the window. It was an awful thing I was going to do, certainly. But what sacrifice would not the worst of us make to preserve the creature we love best in the world from dying before our eyes? CHAPTER XVII I arrived at King's Cross at 8.15 on the following morning, and after breakfasting at the Midland Hotel, went straight to Fabian Scott's chambers, in a street off the Hay-market. It was then a little after half-past ten. Fabian, who was at breakfast, received me very heartily, and was grieved that I had not come direct to him. 'What would you have said,' he asked, 'if I had gone to have breakfast at the Invercauld Arms in Ballater, instead of coming on to you?' 'That's not quite the same thing, my impetuous young friend. You didn't expect me, for one thing, and London is a place where one must be a little more careful of one's behaviour than in the wilds.'