Jane sprang up, wiped her eyes, and, with her hands on her hair, smoothing it, rushed to a mirror. No visitors appearing, she perceived that she was, for perhaps the hundredth time in her life, the victim of an imposture devised by Agatha. She, gratified by the success of her attempt to regain her old ascendancy over Jane--she had made it with misgiving, notwithstanding her apparent confidence--went downstairs to the library, where she found Sir Charles gloomily trying to drown his domestic troubles in art criticism. “I thought you were in the billiard room,” said Agatha. “I only peeped in,” he replied; “but as I saw something particular going on, I thought it best to slip away, and I have been alone ever since.” The something particular which Sir Charles had not wished to interrupt was only a game of billiards. It was the first opportunity Erskine had ever enjoyed of speaking to Gertrude at leisure and alone. Yet their conversation had never been so commonplace. She, liking the game, played very well and chatted indifferently; he played badly, and broached trivial topics in spite of himself. After an hour-and-a-half’s play, Gertrude had announced that this game must be their last. He thought desperately that if he were to miss many more strokes the game must presently end, and an opportunity which might never recur pass beyond recall. He determined to tell her without preface that he adored her, but when he opened his lips a question came forth of its own accord relating to the Persian way of playing billiards. Gertrude had never been in Persia, but had seen some Eastern billiard cues in the India museum. Were not the Hindoos wonderful people for filigree work, and carpets, and such things? Did he not think the crookedness of their carpet patterns a blemish? Some people pretended to admire them, but was not that all nonsense? Was not the modern polished floor, with a rug in the middle, much superior to the old carpet fitted into the corners of the room? Yes. Enormously superior. Immensely-- “Why, what are you thinking of to-day, Mr. Erskine? You have played with my ball.” “I am thinking of you.” “What did you say?” said Gertrude, not catching the serious turn he had given to the conversation, and poising her cue for a stroke. “Oh! I am as bad as you; that was the worst stroke I ever made, I think. I beg your pardon; you said something just now.” “I forget. Nothing of any consequence.” And he groaned at his own cowardice. “Suppose we stop,” she said. “There is no use in finishing the game if our hands are out. I am rather tired of it.” “Certainly--if you wish it.” “I will finish if you like.” “Not at all. What pleases you, pleases me.”