"Yes, Sergius. Friendship is something. Let us thank God, not even that he is safe, but that you--you are safe--and that Olga--" "Hush! Has she gone with him?" "She will meet him. He has sworn to marry her." The hand of Sergius moved to his left breast. Anthony's glowing eyes were fixed upon him. "Ah, yes, Sergius," Anthony cried. "Put that cursed, cursed thing down, put it away. Now it can never wreck your life and my peace." Sergius drew out the revolver slowly and carefully. Again the mist rose around him. But it was no longer white; it was scarlet. There was a report. Anthony fell, without a word, a cry. Then Sergius bent down, and listened to the silence of his friend's heart--the long silence of the man who intervened. AFTER TO-MORROW I In his gilded cage, above the window-boxes that were full of white daisies, the canary chirped with a desultory vivacity. That was the only near sound that broke the silence in the drawing-room of No. 100 Mill Street, Knightsbridge, in which a man and a woman stood facing one another. Away, beyond his twittering voice, sang in the London streets the muffled voice of the season. The time was late afternoon, and rays of mellow light slanted into the pretty room, and touched its crowd of inanimate occupants with a radiance in which the motes danced merrily. The china faces of two goblins on the mantelpiece glowed with a grotesque meaning, and their yellow smiles seemed to call aloud on mirth; but the faces of the man and woman were pale, and their lips trembled, and did not smile. She was tall, dark, and passionate-looking, perhaps twenty-eight or thirty. He was a few years older, a man so steadfast in expression that silly people, who spring at exaggeration as saints spring at heaven, called him stern, and even said he looked forbidding--at balls. At last the song of the canary was broken upon by a voice. Sir Hugh Maine spoke, very quietly. "Why not?" he said. "I don't think I can tell you," Mrs. Glinn answered, with an obvious effort. "You prefer to refuse me without giving a reason?" "I have a right to," she said. "I don't question it. You cannot expect me to say more than that." He took up his hat, which lay on a chair, and smoothed it mechanically with his coat-sleeve. The action seemed to pierce her like a knife, for she started, and half-extended her hand. "Don't!" she exclaimed. "At least, wait one moment. So you belong to the second class of men." "What do you mean?" "Men are divided into two classes--those who refuse to be refused, and those who accept. But don't be too--too swift in your acceptance. After all, a refusal is not exactly a bank-note." She tried to smile. "But I am exactly a beggar," he answered, still keeping the hat in his hand. "And if you have nothing to give me, I may as well go." "And spend the rest of your life in sweeping the old crossing?" "And spend the rest of my life as I can," he said. "That need not concern you."