"Bad news?" he repeats in an odd voice--"what is bad news? That depends upon people's tastes. It is for you to judge of that; it concerns you as much or more than it does me." So saying, he places the paper in her hand, and, walking away to the little square window--open, despite the wildness of the weather--looks out upon the indigo-coloured night. Although his back is turned towards them, he knows that Elizabeth is reading over her mother's shoulder--reading this: "BOURGOUIN, "Grand Hotel, "Algiers. "Have heard of Le Marchants. If you do not wire to the contrary, shall cross to-morrow.--BYNG, Marseille." He is not left long in doubt as to their having mastered the meaning of the missive. "He is coming!" says Mrs. Le Marchant with a species of gasp; "and you told me--not five minutes ago you told me"--with an accent of reproach--"that there was not the remotest chance of it. Oh, stop him! stop him! Telegraph at once! The office will be open for two or three hours yet! There is plenty, plenty of time! Oh, telegraph at once--at once!" "It is too late," replies Jim, retracing his steps to the table; "you forget that it is two days old. You see, they have spelt my name wrong; that accounts for the mistake. _Bourgouin!_ It looks odd spelt _Bourgouin_, does not it?" He hears himself giving a small, dry laugh, which nobody echoes. "He must have sailed yesterday," continues the young man, wishing he could persuade his voice to sound more natural; "he may be here at any moment. If the weather had been decent, he would have arrived ere now." "Then there is nothing to be done!" rejoins Mrs. Le Marchant in a tone of flat desperation, sitting down again on the chair out of which she had instinctively risen at the little stir of the telegram's arrival. Elizabeth is dead silent. Though there is no direction by the eye to show that Jim's next remark is aimed at her, there can be no doubt that it is awkwardly thrown in her direction. "If this had not been delayed--if it had not been too late, would you have wished, would you have decided to stop him?" "What is the use of asking me such a question now that it _is_ too late?" replies she, with more of impatience, almost wrath, in her voice than he has ever before heard that most gentle organ express. But besides the ire and irritation, there is another quality in it which goads him to snatch a reluctant glance at her. She is extremely agitated, but underlying the distress and disturbance of her face there is an undoubted light shining like a lamp through a pale pink shade--a light that, with all her laughter and her jokes, was not there half an hour ago. He had often reproached himself that, by his clumsiness, he had stuck a knife into her tender heart. She is even with him to-night. To-night the tables are turned. It is she that has stuck a knife into him. It is clear as day that she is _glad_ it is too late. CHAPTER VIII.