On the night of the ball at the British Embassy, Pelham, on his return to his hotel, sat in his own room, smoking and turning over an important question in his mind, which was “when should he ask Elizabeth Brandon to marry him.” He had not much to offer her in a worldly point of view. His own position was good, but no better than hers, and he discovered that General Brandon, who had been to England once or twice, had hobnobbed with persons of higher rank even than the peer of the realm who was grandfather to both Darrell and himself; but Pelham realized with an admiration as deep as his love that Elizabeth was not the woman to marry for either money or position. He was reflecting on what he should say to General Brandon next day, before speaking to Elizabeth, for he had old–fashioned notions as to the rights of fathers. He was wondering, in case Elizabeth accepted him, how General Brandon would take the proposition that she should come out to India and marry him there after the English fashion, and was in doubt whether General Brandon would fall on his neck and embrace him or kick him downstairs. While he was considering these things, the door opened and Darrell walked in. He threw himself in a chair close to Pelham and, closing his eyes, went into a revery. Pelham looked at him goodhumoredly. No doubt he was dreaming about Elizabeth. He was a handsome fellow, no denying that, and candor, courage, and honesty were writ large all over him. Presently he roused himself, and leaning over towards Pelham, and blushing like a girl, for the first time in his life, he said in a whisper, “She loves me.” Pelham received a shock such as he had never known before. He knew Darrell’s sincerity and real modesty too well to doubt him, and his mind took in immediately and quietly the calamity to himself which Darrell’s words implied. He sat still, so still that Darrell shook him. “Do you hear, old man? It was all settled to–night at the ball, not two hours ago, behind a big hydrangea in a flower–pot, and you’ve got to help me out. I am to see the Ambassador to–morrow and ask him to cable for two weeks’ additional leave, so we can be married before sailing.” Yes, with Pelham the dream was over, the fairy palace had crumbled. The heavenly music had dissolved in air. The world had suddenly grown bleak and cold and commonplace, but pride and common sense still remained. “It seems to me,” said Pelham, in a quiet voice, after a pause, “that there isn’t much left for me to do. You and—Miss Brandon have agreed, and the Ambassador can no doubt get you two weeks more leave—” Pelham stopped with a choking in his throat which he had never felt before in all his life. “But why don’t you congratulate me?” cried Darrell. They had been like brothers all their lives, and Pelham was to Darrell his other self; while Darrell was to Pelham a younger brother whose excellence of heart and delicacy of soul made up for a very meagre understanding.