"Well," he said, laughing, "has the fit of anger passed away? If not I can wait." She did not answer, but stood gazing at him with a piteous look in her eyes--gazing so pleadingly that he sprang to his feet, a change coming over his countenance as he approached her. Helen's heart gave one great throb of joy, for she read now in his face the power she had over him still. He really loved her, and it was he who was the slave, not she, and she would yet be able to mould him to her will. But not by anger and reproach: they would only weaken her position. She had found that he was one who might be moved by her woman's grief and tears, and acting upon the impulse of the moment, she waited until he was close at hand, and then, before he could stay her, she sank upon her knees, to clasp his hands in hers, and gazing in his face, burst into a passionate flood of tears. End of Volume Two. VOLUME THREE, CHAPTER ONE. CHUMBLEY'S IDEA. "Chumbley," said Bertie Hilton, "your behaviour towards that woman was sickening--almost disgusting! How you could be even civil to her is more than I can understand!" "Oh, I'm always civil to a woman," drawled Chumbley. "See how affable I always was to Helen Perowne, who--" "Will you have the goodness to leave Miss Perowne's name out of the conversation?" said Hilton, with asperity. "Certainly, if you wish it, and substitute little Stuart's name. See how civil I always was to her." "A merit certainly," said Hilton, contemptuously. "Who could help being civil to so amiable and good a little body!" "Here, hang it, Bertie, old man!" cried Chumbley, in mock alarm, "don't monopolise all the nice women. It was Helen Perowne the other day. Now you seem dead on little Stuart!" "Confound Helen Perowne!" muttered Hilton, bitterly. "Just as you like; and confound the Inche Maida too--I shan't! Sort of sympathetic pity for woman--weaker vessels, you know." "Weaker vessel?" laughed Hilton, scornfully; "what, our captor?" "Well, she isn't a bad sort of woman," replied Chumbley. "Not a bad sort of woman? Why, she's a modern Jezebel--a Cleopatra--a Semiramis!" "Think so?" said Chumbley, quietly. "Think so? Of course! I'm getting terribly tired of this captivity! I must get away somehow. How many days have we been here?" "Week," said Chumbley, laconically. "A week of weeks it seems to me," said Hilton. "Horrible woman!" "Well, I don't know," said Chumbley, "she seems to possess very great taste." "Taste? The savage!" "Well, great taste in taking a fancy to you. I think you ought to be very proud." "Proud? I sicken with disgust! Pah! Don't let's talk about her, but try and make some plan to escape." "Well, yes, I suppose we must do that; but 'pon my word, old fellow, I don't see how. I wish old Bolter were here."