“I would give up everything I had in life to save her one hour's pain,” said Kent. “I have been a fool,--I see it now,--oh! not in having loved her--not that. It is a blessed privilege--I can't explain, for you would not understand. I shall always love her, Winifred; no other woman can be to me what Clytie has been--and might have been. I shall leave by the early boat tomorrow morning, so you will not see me for three or four months. When I return--perhaps you'll let me come and talk to you a little sometimes.” “Oh, it will comfort me,” said Winifred, “for am I not losing her too?” He bade her good-bye, exacting before he left a promise that she would not let Clytie know of what had passed between them. He went downstairs, anxious to escape from the house, to get into the open air. In the entrance passage the side door leading into the shop was open and Mrs. Gurkins was standing by the threshold. Kent stopped for a moment to acquaint her with the fact of his sudden departure next day. He would keep on the rooms, which must be scrupulously locked up during his absence. Since his first intimacy with Clytie he had imperceptibly grown more amenable to feminine interference in his domestic arrangements, and Mrs. Gurkins no longer had her former terror of invading his domain. But she was still in enough awe of him to promise faithfully to execute his desires. To talk on these trivial matters was a relief from the terrible strain of the last few moments, although he wondered a little how he could lend them coherent attention. He was listening with waning interest to some final irrelevancies on the part of his landlady when a man ran down the stairs and strode quickly past him in the passage. A glance was sufficient to tell Kent who Clytie's visitor was--it had not occurred to him before to conjecture. His heart sank as he realised the splendid physique and proud, masterful bearing of his rival. Ordinarily the least observant of men in such matters, Kent noted the careless ease with which he wore his faultless attire. The patent-leather boots, the new silk hat, the well-cut frock-coat with an orchid in the buttonhole, the new gray Suède gloves grasped along with a gold-mounted malacca--all seemed to belong to the man naturally, to be the world's fit adjuncts to the gifts of nature. Smiling to himself and humming a song, he seemed the personification of the joy and strength, the success and luxury of life. “I am not that man's match,” thought Kent bitterly, thus falling, as all men must do at times, a little below himself.