It was not because Laurence Alsager had been for a twelvemonth in the East that he believed in the Mohammedan doctrine of fatalism. That had been an unacknowledged part of his creed long before the disappointment which sent him flying from the ordinary routine of life had fallen upon him. Even under that disappointment he allowed the power of the wondrous "to be," and, bowing to its influence, accepted his exile with far greater equanimity than many others would have done under similar circumstances. He had suffered his plans--undecided when he left England--to be entirely guided by chance; had followed suggestions for his route made by hotel-landlords or conveyance-advertisements; had dallied over one part of his journey and hurried over another, simply in obedience to the promptings of the feeling of the moment; and had finally decided on returning to be present at the first night of Spofforth's play at the Parthenium in the haphazard spirit which had prompted all his movements. His belief in Kismet had been enormously strengthened since his return. It was "arranged" that Lady Mitford should be present on the occasion in question; that he should be presented to her after trying to avoid her and her party; that Lord Dollamore should be at the Club, and should give utterance to those sentiments which had aroused so deep a disgust in Laurence's breast. As to the events of the next day,--the visit to Saunderson's, the drive to Acton, the trial of Sir Launcelot and its consequences,--therein was the most marvellous illustration of the doctrine of Kismet that ever he had yet seen. He thought of all this as he woke the next morning; and clearly saw in an instant that it would be running directly contrary to his fate to go down to see his father just then. He felt impelled to remain in London, and in London he should stay. He felt--Ah, how beautiful she looked as he dragged her out from amidst the _débris_ of the carriage and the plunging hoofs of the ponies, though her face was as pale as marble, and the light of her eyes was quenched beneath the drooping lids! It was Kismet that had kept that handsome oaf, her husband, at home, and prevented his interfering with the little romance. Not that Sir Charles Mitford was by any means an oaf; he was a man of less worldly experience, of less polish, of social standing, higher in rank, but decidedly lower in reputation, than Laurence; and so Laurence regarded him as an oaf, and, since the pony-carriage adventure, began to find a little hatred mingling with the contempt with which he had previously regarded the latest addition to the baronetage.