When the young doctor asked her opinion of London and Londoners, she told him frankly just what she thought; and his was such a congenial spirit that she forgot the barrier which had sprung up between them, forgot for the moment that there was such a person as David Salmon in existence. But Geoffrey Milnes did not forget. That morning he had received a letter from a medical friend in Sydney, asking him to act as _locum tenens_ for a year in his place; and he was debating as to whether he should accept the post or not. Once out in Australia he might stay there for years, and his hope of marrying Celia would have to be totally renounced. The news of her engagement had come as a great blow, but it had not entirely shattered his hopes. Herbert Karne had told him quite candidly that he was disappointed in Celia’s choice, and had also hinted that the engagement might have been the outcome of mere propinquity, not love. This made Geoffrey all the more angry that he had not been first in the field; and though his keen sense of honour forbade him to make love to another man’s _fiancée_, he was not altogether discouraged. A good many things could happen in three years; he would have to bide his time. At dinner he was silent, almost moody. Celia sat next to Dr. Forrest and opposite to himself, and though a silver _épergne_ filled with chrysanthemums partially obscured him from her view, she felt his eyes continually on her face. The conversation between the old doctor and his host was chiefly on such topics as tithes and the agricultural outlook, and when, at the close of the meal, Celia rose and left the room, they were holding a controversy on the question of vivisection. Geoffrey Milnes remained silent, for as he held contrary views to his partner, he deemed it wiser not to join in the discussion. He lit a cigarette, and smoked it pensively; then asked to be excused, and followed Celia into the drawing-room. She was standing at a little table, turning over the leaves of a book, and did not hear him enter. The room was in partial darkness, for the electric light had been extinguished; and the flickering firelight, mingled with the subdued effulgence from the lamp, cast weird shadows over the walls. Above her head there hung, suspended from the chandelier, a large bunch of mistletoe. The temptation was too much for Geoffrey. Giving way to a sudden uncontrollable impulse, he clasped her in his arms, and pressed a passionate kiss upon her brow. He could feel the throbbing of her heart near his, her warm breath upon his cheeks; then he let her go. “Geoffrey!” she gasped in bewilderment, “Geoffrey!” It was all she could utter; the suddenness of it, and the surprise, seemed to have bereft her of all words. “Forgive me, Celia,” he panted. “It was a liberty I ought not to have taken; but it is a Christmas privilege--under the mistletoe, you know.”