He leaned back luxuriously in his chair, blowing cigarette rings at the fire, whilst Charles Bevan mentally recalled the vision of "My butler James." He could not but admit that Lambert carried his poverty exceedingly well, and with a much better grace than that with which many men carry their wealth. The impression that Fanny Lambert had made upon him was not effaced in any way by the impression made upon him by her father. Lambert was not an impossible man. Wildly extravagant he might be, and reckless to the verge of lunacy, but he was a gentleman; and in saying the word "gentleman," my dear sir or madam I do not refer to birth. There lives many a hideous bounder who yet can fling his great-great-great-grandfather at your head, and many a noble-minded gentleman, the present or past existence of whose father is demonstrable only by the logic of physiology. Lambert went off to his room at twelve, and Mr Bevan passed a broken night. He dreamt of lawyers and sunflowers. He dreamt that he saw old Francis, the village lunatic, waiting at the cross-roads; and when he asked him what he was waiting for, Francis replied that he was waiting to see his (Mr Bevan's) marriage procession go by: a dream which was scarcely a hopeful omen, considering the object of the old man's daily vigil as revealed by Lulu Morgan. He came down to breakfast late. His hostess did not appear, and Miss Morgan announced that her friend was suffering from tic-douloureux. "'S far as I can make out, it's like having the grippe in one eye. I've physicked her with Bile Beans and Perry Davis, and I've sent for some Antikamnia. If she's not better by luncheon I'll send for the doctor." She was not down by luncheon. After that meal, Charles, strolling across the hall to the billiard-room, felt something pluck at his sleeve. It was Miss Morgan. "I want to speak to you alone for a minute," said she. "Come into the garden; there's no one there." He followed her, much wondering, and they passed down a shady path till they lost sight of the house. "Pamela's worried," said Lulu, "and I want to talk to you about her----" "Why, what can be----" "We've been sitting up all night, she and I, and we've been discussing things, you 'specially." "Thank you----" "Now, don't you be mad, for Pamela's very fond of you, and I like you, for you're a right good sort; but, see here, Pamela thinks she's made a mistake." A queer new feeling entered Mr Bevan's mind, peeped round and passed through it, so to speak--a feeling of relief--or more strictly speaking, release. "Indeed?" "She thinks you have both made a mistake, and--you know----" "The fact is, she doesn't want to marry me; why not say it at once? or, rather, why doesn't she say so to me frankly, instead of deputing another person to do so?"