"Marion!" exclaimed Helen, "what does it mean? Do you mean that you are not engaged; that——" "Certainly not," Marion answered. "I am going to marry Reggie. It is you that Philip loves, and I am very sorry for you that you don't love him." Helen clasped Marion's hands in both of hers. "But, Marion!" she cried, "I do, oh, I do!" * * * * * There was a thick yellow fog the next morning, and with it rain and a sticky, depressing dampness which crept through the window-panes, and which neither a fire nor blazing gas-jets could overcome. Philip stood in front of the fire-place with the morning papers piled high on the centre-table and scattered over the room about him. He had read them all, and he knew now what it was to wake up famous, but he could not taste it. Now that it had come it meant nothing, and that it was so complete a triumph only made it the harder. In his most optimistic dreams he had never imagined success so satisfying as the reality had proved to be; but in his dreams Helen had always held the chief part, and without her success seemed only to mock him. He wanted to lay it all before her, to say, "If you are pleased, I am happy. If you are satisfied, then I am content. It was done for you, and I am wholly yours, and all that I do is yours." And, as though in answer to his thoughts, there was an instant knock at the door, and Helen entered the room and stood smiling at him across the table. Her eyes were lit with excitement, and spoke with many emotions, and her cheeks were brilliant with color. He had never seen her look more beautiful. "Why, Helen!" he exclaimed, "how good of you to come. Is there anything wrong? Is anything the matter?" She tried to speak, but faltered, and smiled at him appealingly. "What is it?" he asked in great concern. Helen drew in her breath quickly, and at the same moment motioned him away—and he stepped back and stood watching her in much perplexity. With her eyes fixed on his she raised her hands to her head, and her fingers fumbled with the knot of her veil. She pulled it loose, and then, with a sudden courage, lifted her hat proudly, as though it were a coronet, and placed it between them on his table. "Philip," she stammered, with the tears in her voice and eyes, "if you will let me—I have come to stay." The table was no longer between them. He caught her in his arms and kissed her face and her uncovered head again and again. From outside the rain beat drearily and the fog rolled through the street, but inside before the fire the two young people sat close together, asking eager questions or sitting in silence, staring at the flames with wondering, happy eyes. * * * * * The Lion and the Unicorn saw them only once again. It was a month later when they stopped in front of the shop in a four-wheeler, with their baggage mixed on top of it, and steamer-labels pasted over every trunk.