"So you, too, have caught the fever of unrest, Mr. Tremain, and become moon-struck under the influence of Luna's fool's month. For myself, I have always asserted that the blood of the wandering tribes flows in my veins, the night-time and the dark hours have always been my favourite times for----" "A rendezvous," struck in Philip, sharply. "I have not forgotten any of your pet peculiarities, you see. Perhaps I intrude, however; the hour and scene demand a Romeo for your Juliet, and I can scarcely hope to fill the part to your liking." She started as though he had struck her, but made answer calmly enough: "You are too modest, Mr. Tremain, by far; it is a new development in your character, pardon me if it strikes me as somewhat ludicrous." And she laughed lightly and coldly, though with a ring of bitterness below the mocking notes. But Philip was not angered by her words or her laughter; he scarcely heard the latter, so eagerly were his eyes devouring each feature and line of the once dearly worshipped face and form. Surely the cheeks were a trifle more wan and hollow than in the old days, despite the delicate rouge tinting that lay upon them; and the eyes were deeper set, the shadows beneath them darker, their expression more weary and unsatisfied than when last he had looked into their violet depths; and had not the perfect modelling of her figure grown somewhat thinner and more shrunken? He, who remembered her in the full glory and pride of her youthful beauty, and who had loved her in it, noted now with keenest vision each change that time had wrought upon it. And as he gazed the old old passion leapt into life again; his heart grew tender and longing, his love of ten years ago awoke from its long slumber, and clamoured for its resurrection. And yet, mingling with this tumult of emotion, overweighing it, and pressing it back, was a strange, intangible, inexplicable power that evolved itself out of a future of unknown presentiment, even as it seemed but the forecast of a dread calamity. But Philip was not one to be swayed by unseen influences; he shook off the impression of supernatural agencies and resolved to snatch at this one hour, which chance had thrown in his way, and wring from it whatever of joy or sweetness could be gathered from the withered blossoms and crushed buds of the past. He stood face to face with Patricia once more; might not he, remembering Esther Newbold's pleadings, even now after ten long years of separation, gather sufficient fruit from off the golden trees of past youth and love, to make happy and contented the downward years of life? Could a man stand thus, looking into the eyes of the woman of his life-long devotion, and remain indifferent? Would not any sop from out that gilded past, if thrown to him by her hand, prove of sufficient value to be worth his glad acceptance?