“Then—and you—do you approve of her decision?” he asked slowly, his voice so different from his first eager greeting. It was tired and a little thick. An idea flashed through Muriel’s mind; she leaned forward suddenly. “Mr. Damores, do you care for her?” she asked. He squared his shoulders, and looked back at her steadily, but a little surprised. “Really, Miss Muriel, I thought—I thought it was pretty obvious!” he replied. “Then,” said Muriel, “I think very poorly of you for not wishing to marry her!” “But, good Heavens! Miss Dallerton,” he cried, now really astonished, “I want nothing so much! I came here, if you must know, simply for that purpose! and I find her—gone—leaving no traces, and, if you will excuse my saying so, a great deal of confusion behind her!” “I certainly do feel confusion, not to say chaos,” said Muriel smiling; “and the worst of it is I can’t possibly explain. However one thing’s evident, if you want her you must look for her, for I have no address beyond Paris. She hates writing letters, and it will probably be a month at least before she writes and gives it to me. Will you wait in London?” Leslie Damores smiled. “I might find her in Paris, and I shall not find her here,” he said; “and when I do find her, I shall bring her back. Good-bye, Miss Dallerton; I’m glad I didn’t deserve your scolding this time, it looked as if it was going to be a pretty bad one. Oh, but I was a fool for not marrying Cynthia eight years ago!” Muriel held out both her hands to him, her eyes filled with tears. “I am glad you are going to her,” she said. “I won’t wish you luck, because there is something so much better that you have got already; but I can’t help being a little sorry, for she will never come back to me again!” “Are you all alone?” he asked. “There’s my work,” she said; “and the blackbeetle, who is a great friend of mine, and looks after me very well.” “Do you remember ‘The Lady of Shalott?’” he asked abruptly. “I always liked that last line of it, ‘God in His mercy lend her grace.’ Good-bye, Miss Dallerton.” He was gone, hopeful and strong once more, with the possibility of satisfaction within his grasp, and Muriel again alone. “It was all very well for Launcelot to say that,” she thought, “but when she needed him most she had no loyal knight and true, the Lady of Shalott, and—and not even God’s grace would make her forget that!” And Muriel put her arms on the table and cried a little about Jack—at least she thought it was about Jack, but it was really that Cynthia’s hand was on what she herself had missed. The woman’s lips that bear no kiss of love seem formed in vain; even the angels must sigh for them—and not even the angels satisfy. Yet she had held it all once, and remorse and passion and pity mocked at her for having thrown life’s gift away.