There are few lives without one red gleam from the west, one moment of desire when the wind comes with the cry of a lover through midnight forest ways. To feel again that strange stir of mystery many a man has leaped into what the world calls “sin.” It is but Nature’s living voice: the potion of sweet herbs that she presses upon her children, that they may drink and see the sky waving with red banners, and smell the far fragrance of pine woods or wild thyme. For life must beget life, and Nature weaves her mystery about the hearts of mortal men, only snatching the magic veil aside when her witchery has worked its will. Now my Lord Gore had passed through many such phases, and was as wise as most men who have studied others and themselves. To remain interested in life the man of the world must be piqued continually by some new plot. A dish that can be had for the asking has less spice in it than one that boasts delicacies from strange lands. And my lord was amused by his son’s possible lunacy, even as a man who has been under the table many a night is amused by watching some grave person make a first experiment in the art of self-intoxication. My Lord Gore and his dear Goddess enjoyed the little drama together, being in such sympathy with each other that they could discuss its subtleties and smile over its innocent blindness. There was some singularity in the case in question. The woman was not what the world would call wooable. As for the man, he was no courtier, and not given to fine phrases. They imagined that much bellows-work would be needed to make such green wood flare up into flame. My lord and Lady Anne were standing at a window in the main gallery of the house—a window that looked out upon the garden and the music-room. My lord was hiding, almost playfully, behind a curtain, and peering at the mother with inimitable slyness. Anne Purcell stood back a little, so that she could hear without being seen. “They are not very talkative,” said my lord. “No.” “A couple of sphinxes making love to each other without speaking a word! I have no doubt but that Jack will prove a veritable Petruchio. It will be boot and saddle for him to-morrow, and a canter along the road to York to see how his property doth in those parts. A man must be given opportunities of saying good-bye. It is discreet and amiable of us to stand here chuckling in a draughty gallery.” Anne Purcell held up a hand, a sharp gesture for silence. “Hark! some one is playing the harpsichord!” “Not Jack.” “No one has touched the thing for months.” “That accounts for the discords. Mistress Barbara is picking up the old fascinations that girls learn at school. Phew! Jack must be a gallant liar if he can swear that he enjoys it!” “For Heaven’s sake, be quiet, Stephen. I want to listen.”