I had indeed awakened that morning with an exhilarating thrill of anticipation, comparable to that of the mountain climber who knows not what panorama of glory may be disclosed to his eyes when he reaches the summit. I had whistled in my bath--a most unusual thing. “Are you going to turn Socialist?” “_Qui lo sa_? I'm willing to turn anything alive and honest. It doesn't matter what a man professes so long as he professes it with all the faith of all his soul.” I broke into a laugh, for the echo of my words rang comic in my ears. “Why do you laugh?” she asked. “Don't you think it funny to hear me talk like a two-penny Carlyle?” “Not a bit,” she said seriously. “I can't undertake to talk like that always,” I said warningly. “I thought you said you were going to be serious.” “So I am--but platitudinous--Heaven forbid!” The little clock on the mantelpiece struck six. Eleanor rose in alarm. “How the time has flown! I must be getting back. Well?” Our eyes met. “Well?” said I. “Are we ever to meet again?” “It's for you to say.” “No,” she said. And then very distinctly, very deliberately, “It's for you.” I understood. She made the offer simply, nobly, unreservedly. My heart was filled with great gratitude. She was so true, so loyal, so thorough. Why could I not take her at her word? I murmured: “I'll remember what you say.” She put out her hand. “Good-bye!” “Good-bye and God bless you!” I said. I accompanied her to the front door, hailed a passing cab, and waited till she had driven off. Was there ever a sweeter, grander, more loyal woman? The three little words had changed the current of my being. I returned to take leave of Agatha. I found her in the drawing-room reading a novel. She twisted her head sideways and regarded me with a bird-like air of curiosity. “Eleanor gone?” Her tone jarred on me. I nodded and dropped into a chair. “Interview passed off satisfactorily?” “We were quite comfortable, thank you. The only drawback was the tea. Why a woman in your position can't give people China tea instead of that Ceylon syrup will be a mystery to me to my dying day.” She rose in her wrath and shook me. “You're the most aggravating wretch on earth!” “My dear Tom-Tit,” said I gravely. “Remember the moral tale of Bluebeard.” “Look here, Simon”--she planted herself in front of me--“I'm not a bit inquisitive. I don't in the least want to know what passed between you and Eleanor. But what I would give my ears to understand is how you can go through a two hours' conversation with the girl you were engaged to--a conversation which must have affected the lives of both of you--and then come up to me and talk drivel about China tea and Bluebeard.” “Once on a time, my dear,” said I, “I flattered myself on being an artist in life. I am humbler now and acknowledge myself a wretched bungling amateur. But I still recognise the value of chiaroscuro.”