"We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He lives most Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. And he whose heart beats quickest ... Lives in one hour more than in years do some Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins." PHILIP JAMES BAILY. "Is that all I can do for you, ma’am?" "You might put another little pearl pin at the back of my bodice, please, Emily; I can’t quite reach it. Thank you; that’s very nice." The third housemaid—Mrs. Brand had never had a maid of her own in her life—withdrew with a last gratified glance at her handiwork. She thought her "lady" in an inexpensive gown had a better appearance than any other member of the house party. All servants liked Evelyn; she treated them as human beings, not automatons. Mrs. Brand looked at her watch. Yes, there was still a quarter of an hour’s grace before dinner. She switched off the electric light, and, drawing a chair beside the open window, leant out to the night and drank in its wonderful perfume. There was never a place so full of sweet scents and sounds as Creagh. Some one else had dressed quickly too. The echo of men’s voices rose presently from the verandah below. She recognized them with a start as Creagh’s unmistakable chuckle of delight broke out at something Farquharson said. Then the younger man pulled his chair forward—she heard the sound grate on the stone—and took up the thread of talk again with an alert and interested air. Evelyn, curiously tired, listened for a moment to the murmur of voices without taking in the full significance of words which occasionally reached her. Creagh seemed to be unfolding some plan of campaign, to which Farquharson said but little in reply. His tone was deliberate and extraordinarily final; one or two words reached Evelyn clearly. She drew back further into the shadow, fearful of playing the part of eavesdropper. The frayed edge of her gown, mended and adapted almost beyond recognition, caught her eye. She went to her work-basket and mended it mechanically. It was draped with the lace of her mother’s and her own wedding veil, and sweet with the scent of lavender bags where it had been laid. The skirt was made from the fifteen-year-old Court train of her bridal gown; a pearl spray clasping the flowers at her breast was one of Creagh’s numerous wedding gifts, her fan and handkerchief another. Every appointment of her dress to-night recalled her marriage. The maid had put out another gown upon the bed, which Mrs. Brand had discarded, choosing by preference that which she had worn the night before. Evelyn had to practise every pitiful little shift of poverty "to keep up an appearance."