He had not meant to find her in London. When he had, and they met again and yet again, and in fact even from the moment when she had told him where and how she lived, he had made the great decision. The locusts should eat no more empty years. If she could forget (_could_ she forget, forgive at least?) that stammering judgment eight years ago, how happy they would be together! What noble, magnificent work would they not do—together—and now she had sent him away with no excuse. Had that self-made barrier of his fallen for another to rise? He smoked hard and rang the bell. There is always one way of finding out things if a man has sense and no false pride—to ask. He was going to ask, and he smiled grimly to himself as he thought of the answer she would give him—_should_ give him!—if strength and power and purpose went for anything. The tea-things that were set out for her looked miserable as only neglected food can look, and the room lost in the gathering twilight seemed emptily expectant of the guest who had not come. Leslie Damores cared nothing at all for omens and less for gloom, and even the fact that he could not find his matches did not evoke a frown. He was going to see her, and he _meant_ to see her, and he terribly over-paid the cabman’s fare. How many sullen looks and surly words do we not owe to the over-generosity of lovers, who appear to think that by tipping the universe they will earn the reward of Providence in the shape they most desire? Alas! we human beings are always misplacing our tips, and then we wonder when the raps that come to us seem to be misplaced as well! CHAPTER XX “God is in all men, but all men are not in God: that is the reason why they suffer.” IT was hot, with that intense silken quiver in the air which turns the atmosphere into a living creature. That “certain twilight” moment was already beginning to “cut the glory from the gray,” and across the Indian garden strolled two figures scarcely conscious of the breathless life, so interested were they in each other. Gladys Travers, in a well-fitting gown, a cloud of something soft that sunk into a shower of lovely curves, led the way through the trees to a seat. “I call it a summer-house,” she said. “It sounds so English!” “Ah!” Jack Hurstly answered half wistfully, “you’ve already begun to hunger for home. We all have it, you know, and try to call the most un-English things by familiar names, just to trick ourselves into thinking—Heaven knows what—that it isn’t quite so far away, I suppose.” “It seems hardly possible that we have been here two months,” sighed Gladys. “And it _was_ so strange to find you here!”