"It's no use, Colin!" he laughed. "You're trying to appear nonchalant, and you're doing it very well, too, but you can't control your fingers and your eyes--and neither can I, I fancy, though I've tried hard enough, God knows! We are about all in! These four days of strain and uncertainty have taken it all out of us. If I had any doubt as to my affection for Elaine, it's vanished, now.----I don't say I'm fool enough to propose to her, yet I'm scarcely responsible, at present. If I were to see her this minute, I'd likely do something rash." "You're coming around to it, gradually," said Macloud. "Gradually! Hum! I don't know about the 'gradually.' I want to pull myself together--to get a rein on myself--to--what are you smiling at; am I funny?" "You are!" said Macloud. "I never saw a man fight so hard against his personal inclinations, and a rich wife. You don't deserve her!--if I were Elaine, I'd turn you down hard, hard." "Thank God! you're not Elaine!" Croyden retorted. "And hence, with a woman's unreasonableness and trust in the one she loves, she will likely accept you." "How do you know she loves me?" Macloud blew a couple of smoke rings and watched them sail upward. "I suppose you're equally discerning as to Miss Carrington, and her love for you," Croyden commented. "I regret to say, I'm not," said Macloud, seriously. "That is what troubles me, indeed. Unlike my friend, Geoffrey Croyden, I'm perfectly sure of my own mind, but I'm not sure of the lady's." "Then, why don't you find out?" "Exactly what I shall do, when she returns." "It's sure as fate!" said Croyden. "Thanks! We each seem to be able to answer the other's uncertainty," he remarked, calmly. Presently, Macloud arose. "I'm going over to Ashburton, and talk with the Captain a little--sort of cheer him up. Come along?" Croyden shook his head. "Go on!" said he. "It's a very good occupation for you, sitting up to the old gent. I'll give you a chance by staying away, to-night. Make a hit with grandpa, Colin, make a hit with grandpa!" "And you make a hit with yourself--get rid of your foolish theory, and come down to simple facts," Macloud retorted, and he went out. "Get rid of your foolish theory," Croyden soliloquized. "Well, maybe--but _is_ it foolish, that's the question? I'm poor, once more--I've not enough even for Elaine Cavendish's husband--there's the rub! she won't be Geoffrey Croyden's wife, it's I who will be Elaine Cavendish's husband. 'Elaine Cavendish _and her husband_ dine with us to-night!'--'Elaine Cavendish _and her husband_ were at the horse show!' 'Elaine Cavendish _and her husband_ were here!--or there!--or thus and so!'" He could not endure it. It would be too belittling, too disparaging of self-respect.--Elaine Cavendish's husband!--Elaine Cavendish's husband! Might he out-grow it--be known for himself? He glanced up at the portrait of the gallant soldier of a lost cause, with the high-bred face and noble bearing.