"--I think of the passion that shook my youth, Of its aimless love and its idle pains, And am thankful now for the certain truth That only the sweet remains." He was no longer Philip the successful, resting in his easy-chair, the idol of the hour at the Folly; but he was Philip the ardent, and the impecunious; Philip in a badly made coat, heated and travel-stained, hurt and angry; standing in a room that was dainty in its luxury of flowers and half lights, with a vision of a drawing-room beyond, brilliantly lighted, softly coloured, and from whence came the echo of gay laughter, and bright voices. And now from out that room came slowly, ah, how slowly, to his wildly beating heart, a tall slight figure, clad in softest silks and laces, with a breast-knot of violets; and as the vision advanced nearer and stood half within the shadow of the outer room, he could see the soft fair face, crowned with its dead-brown hair, and wearing a look half frightened, half pleading in the sweet eyes, and on the arched and trembling lips. Slowly, slowly the figure drew nearer to him; now it was but a few paces off, he could almost touch it with his hand, he could see the violets rise and fall with the lace upon her bosom; their scent came to him strong, and sweet, and pungent. He sprang from his chair, and held out his hands. "Patty!" he cried, "Patty, have you come to find me, my little Patty?" But even as he spoke the vision faded; there came one clear loud whisper, calling his name, "Philip! Philip!" and then, even as he looked, the shining lights were gone, the gaily echoed voices silent, the figure grew indistinct and unreal, and then vanished, and Philip found himself standing in the middle of the room, gazing on vacancy, with only the sad perfume of violets left on the air. He sank back into his chair, bewildered, exhausted, and as he did so, a strain of saddest music reached his ears, and a voice that was almost a monotone, and yet that struck an answering chord of misery in his heart, said, rather than sang, some words that ran in this wise: "I am a woman, Therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Bid him delay not; Showing no sign to him, By look of mine to him, What he has been to me. Pity me, lean to me, Philip, my king!" The voice ceased, and Mr. Tremain, his composure gone, his heart beating wildly, cried out again, this time with a ring of deepest passion: "Patricia! Patty, have you come back to me?" But it was not Patty's sweet voice he knew so well, that made answer, it was a far higher, lighter treble that cried out, as the door was flung open impetuously: "Oh, Mr. Tremain, how very dull and mopy of you! All alone, in the dark, and no fire!" And Mrs. Esther swept in, trailing her plush tea-gown after her, followed by Perkins with a lamp, and Long with a silver tray set with a tea equipage.