"Love’s a subject I know nothing of, I’m afraid," said Farquharson impatiently. Yet he paid Dora Beadon the tribute of remembering one of the many hints she had let fall. What she implied was true; he did already owe Evelyn a big debt of gratitude. The hours she had spent in his service, the letters she had written, the advice she had given on social matters, even the parties she had planned, the expense to which she had been put, her sympathy—he had taken it all for granted, as though she were his wife and it his due. Thinking it over later, he was aghast at his own lack of consideration. Then, characteristically, he made the best of things. Woman was made for man after all. Was it Joubert or some other French philosopher who said one should choose for a wife only such a woman as he would choose for a friend were she a man? A wife! The word, coming so readily to his lips, startled him. A wife ... a helpmate and companion, the tenderest of mistresses, and best of friends. For a moment he saw a vision, a picture of what his life might be with such a woman.... Such thoughts were not for him. Abruptly leaning out of the motor, he hailed a passer-by, a mere casual acquaintance, who was delighted to be recognized. He even drove on to the man’s rooms in an access of quite unusual cordiality. The little interruption dispersed the vision. But it came back to him, as dreams will, when he turned on the light in his empty room and stood for a moment absently by the table laden with its mass of documents and official pamphlets. It looked bare and cold—not right, somehow. Wife! He tried to close the door of his heart upon the thought in vain. He said Evelyn’s name aloud, and smiled as he re-christened her. "Evelyn—that would do for the world. To me she must always be Eve, the first woman." He drew a long breath, and set to work. The rough draft of accounts in connection with a native industry he was opening out in Taorna had to be checked and examined before dawn. *CHAPTER VI* "Those who want to lead must never hesitate about sacrificing their friends."—LORD BEACONSFIELD. Miss Beadon returned from the Wereminsters’ dinner party even more than usually self-satisfied. The Prime Minister himself had had a chat with her, while as for Farquharson, he was constantly at her side. Another conquest, she supposed—one worth considering this time, for Farquharson was in his way a _parti_.