“I should like you,” continued Risk, “to make your quarters here for the present. Sharp has a room ready for you. And now I’m going to ask you an impertinent question. Have you any debts?” “No—well, I owe my father £100,” the young man replied ruefully. “Then pay it; and if you think you have any grudge against him, forget it. For this year I will pay your salary quarterly, in advance. Don’t thank me. I simply want you to be able to serve me with as free a mind, and as light a heart, as possible. Frankly, you’re an experiment.” With a kindly laugh Risk proceeded to write a cheque. It was no shame to Colin then if his eyes were moist. Surely his father would think kindlier of him now. An hour later he and Kitty were face to face. Ages long it seemed since their parting in the little wood, less than three weeks ago! How much had happened since then! Perhaps Kitty was more at her ease than he. She had slipped into the new, pleasant life as though she belonged to it. She was still a little shy, but not awkwardly so. She had never been “countrified,” yet Colin had always thought of her as a country maid—and had loved her none the less for that. In sunlight and moonlight he had deemed her the prettiest creature alive. But now, under the shaded electric lamps of a London drawing-room in a white muslin frock that gave glimpses of her neck and arms, he beheld her, and his faithful heart ached at her fresh loveliness. “Isn’t this wonderful?” she whispered, smiling, as they shook hands. Poor Colin! He managed to smile in return, but not a word could he find, for in that moment he realized that he loved her more than ever, and that if his love had been wellnigh hopeless before, it was utterly hopeless now. For with all his resolutions to put her out of his life on coming to London, he had indulged a dream of fighting for success in order that he might one day rescue her from dreariness or hardship, and somehow win her for his own. Alas, now he comprehended only too fully what the Zeniths meant to himself. Kitty would be a very rich young woman. He could serve her in nothing at all. What an irony that the man who had given him his first step upwards—and a great step, too—should be the man to set his dearest desire beyond his reach! Well, there was nothing for it but to cleave to duty and have done with dreams. Nevertheless it was a cheerful little dinner-party, and during it the love-lorn young man and Hilda Risk laid the foundations of a lasting friendship. Towards the close of the repast Kitty was telling the host of her father’s unfinished novel which Mr. West had just completed. “He did it in six days, Mr. Risk,” she said warmly, “and I could not have told that it was not my father’s own work. It was wonderful.”