"Never!" she answered decisively. "I may be friendly, but to love a man of that stamp--a man who thinks more of his dress than a woman--never!" I smiled at this denunciation of his foppishness. He was certainly a howling cad, for ever dusting his patent leather boots with his handkerchief, shooting forth his cuffs, and settling his tie. He parted his hair in the middle, and patronised women because he believed himself to be a lady-killer. Truly he was a typical specimen of the City "bounder," who might some day develop into a bucket-shop keeper, a company promoter, or perhaps a money-lender. At the moment when we were speaking the train entered the station of Hampton, and she rose. "Tell me, Eva," I said with deep earnestness as I took her hand to say farewell, "is what you told me this afternoon the absolute truth? Can you never--never reciprocate my love?" Her lips quivered for an instant as her great blue eyes met mine. Even though she wore a veil, I saw that there were tears in them. "Yes," she answered in a hoarse tone, "I have told you the truth, Mr. Urwin. We may never love--never." The train was already at a standstill, and she was compelled to descend hurriedly. "Good-night," she said hoarsely as I released her hand. Then, without waiting for my response, she hurried away and was a moment later lost in the darkness of the road beyond the barrier. The carriage door was slammed, the train moved on, and as it did so I flung myself back into a corner, plunged in gloom and abject despair. She was the only woman I had ever truly loved, yet she was held apart from me. It was the first passionate agony of my life. I suffered now as those do without hope. I found Dick at home smoking furiously, and busily writing in duplicate for the morning papers a strange story he had that evening picked up out at Gipsy Hill concerning a romantic elopement, which would cause considerable sensation in those little tea-and-tennis circles which call themselves suburban society. He briefly related it to me without pausing in his work, writing on oiled tissue paper and taking six copies, one for each of the great dailies. My friend's position in the journalistic world was by no means an uncommon one, for many men holding good berths on newspapers add to their incomes by doing what in press parlance is termed "lineage"--that is contributing to other newspapers for the payment of a penny, or perhaps three-halfpence, a line. I told him that I'd been down to Riverdene, but so engrossed was he in his work that he hazarded no remark, and when he had finished and placed the copies in separate envelopes, already addressed, he put on his hat and went forth to the Boy-Messenger Office in Chancery Lane, whence they would be distributed to the sub-editors about Fleet Street.