When he drove off an hour later to catch the midnight train it was Edith le Mentier who, side by side with Muriel, stood at the door to see him off. Looking back he saw that it was with her he had left “the very best luck in the world.” He had quite forgotten all about Gladys. From her window she watched him go on fire with love and happiness. His last words rang in her ears. She never doubted that they were meant for her. He had no time to say more then; but when he came back, not Muriel in all her beauty, nor any other woman, nor any other thing could ever come between them again she thought. And he would come back! The moonlight and the soft fragrance of the dusky night, what were they any of them but the earth’s pledges to her that her heaven should come again to meet that other heaven in her heart? “I have broken my fan,” said Edith le Mentier to Muriel as they went up to bed. “So stupid of me, wasn’t it; but at any rate I was not going to let Captain Hurstly have another one.” Muriel looked straight before her. “Another one, Edith?” she repeated. “Yes, stupid, didn’t you know men were in the habit of keeping people’s fans when they were—well, rather—don’t you know?” “I am afraid I’m rather dense—good-night,” said Muriel wearily. She stopped outside Gladys’ door, but there was no light or sound. “She’s asleep,” she thought, “I won’t disturb her,” and went on to her own room. It seemed rather strange to her that anybody could sleep. CHAPTER XI “My Faith?— Which Religion I profess?— None of which I mention make. Wherefore so? And can’t you guess?— For Religion’s sake.” —GEORGE MACDONALD. THE morning brought counsel to Muriel. She would say nothing. Jack would not return for a year or two, and in the meantime Gladys’ passionate little heart might have turned elsewhere, or in any case the quick pain of certainty be less. For herself she turned her eager mind anew to the work before her. Love acted as a spur upon the discipline of her life; it made the dark places plainer, and lit up with light and hope the saddest mysteries. She was one of those few souls in whom experiences can never conflict or stand in opposition to each other. She knit them link by link into a chain binding her closer and higher towards her ideals. She never thought much about her difficulties until she came up to them, but when she once faced them they helped her afterwards. Edith le Mentier’s delicate insinuation she had felt a passing disgust at, and had straightway brushed aside. Jealousy and suspicion need darkness and a closed-up room; all Muriel’s rooms were open to the sky and bright with sunshine. Nevertheless when she looked at Edith le Mentier she felt an uneasiness she could not account for.