"Marmaduke, Copestake, Dickinson, and Humphreys," says he, as he writes the names. "Now I call that a firm-and-a-half. Old Broad Street, E.C. _That's_ all!--as far as _he_ goes. Now, how about Puckeridge, Limited?" "Don't write any more, Gerry dear; you'll spoil your eyes. Come and look at the sunset. Come along!" For a blood-red forecast of storm in the west, surer than the surest human barometer, is blazing through the window that cannot be opened for the blow, and turning the shell-work rabbit and the story of Goliath into gold and jewels. The sun is glancing through a rift in the cloud-bank, to say good-night to the winds and seas, and wish them joy of the high old time they mean to have in his absence, in the dark. The lurid level rays that make an indescribable glory of Rosalind's halo-growth of hair as Gerry sees it against the window, have no ill-boding in them for either--no more, that is, than always has belonged to a rough night closing over the sea, and will do so always until the sea is ice again on a planet sick to death. As he draws her arm round his neck and she his round her waist, and they glance at each other in the flaming glow, there is no thought in either of any ill impending for themselves. "I wish Sarah were here to see you now, Rosey." "So should I, love! Only she would see you too. And then she'd make you vainer than you are already. All men are patches of Vanity. But I forgive you." She kisses him slightly in confirmation. They certainly were a wonderful sight, the two of them, a minute ago, when the light was at its best. Yes!--they wish Sally had been there, each on the other's account. It was difficult to say which of the two had thought of Sally first. Both had this habit of registering the _rapport_ of everything to Sally as a first duty. But a sunset glow, like this one, lasts, maybe, little longer than a highest song-note may be sustained. It was to die. But Rosalind and Gerry watched it out. His cheek was resting in the thick mass of soft gold, just moving slightly to be well aware of it. The sun-ray touched it, last of anything in the room, and died.... "What's that, dear love? _Why?_..." It was Rosalind that spoke. "Nothing, dearest! No, nothing!... Indeed, nothing at all!" "Gerry, what _was_ it?" "What was what, dear?" "What made you leave off so suddenly?" For the slightly intermittent movement of his cheek on her hair--what hairy thing is there that does not love to be stroked?--had stopped; and his hand that held hers had slipped from it, and rested for a moment on his own forehead. "It's gone now. It was a sort of recurrence. I haven't been having them lately...." "Come and sit down, love. There, now, don't fidget! What was it about?" Does he look pale?--thinks Rosalind--or is it only the vanished glow?