"He goes on a fearful journey," he said, falling unconsciously to the pulpit manner. "Of course such men know a great deal. He believes that there will be war in Europe in six months' time, and that our country will be concerned. Did he not tell you that?" "I think not, father. He was too busy asking me to arrange the roses in his cabin." "Ah! I remember them, pink roses everywhere in early December. What a feminine display!" "But not a feminine subject. I have never met a man whose character impressed me so clearly. He has only begun in the world--those were his own words." "Well, then, why should he not begin with us? Sir Jules believes that nothing would make a greater stir than his joining our Committee." "Then why don't you ask him yourself? He's in London until the end of the week." Silvester did not speak for some minutes. He seemed to have become a little shy of this outspoken wide-eyed daughter of his, who evaded the issue so cleverly. "I wish you'd write, Gabrielle." "To Mr. Faber?" "Yes; you seemed very good friends on the ship. I believe he'd join if you asked him." She shook her head. "I don't believe it would make any difference who asked him. I'll write, if you wish it." "Yes," he said, rising abruptly, "write now before you go to bed. You're sure you are not hungry?" Gabrielle laughed lightly. "I have left all my vices in America," she rejoined, "being hungry in the witching hours is one of them." III Her boudoir overlooked the great well wherein London lies. Though the moon was in the first quarter, the night was wonderful in stars, and the air quivered with the virility of frost. She could see St. Paul's and the City spires; the Carlton Hotel lay more to the west, and was hidden behind the slopes of Haverstock Hill. There was no snow, for this frost was black as iron. Just below, were the winding walks to which the pilgrims came in search of Keats. She had read the sonnets and tried to understand them, but candour compelled her to say that she preferred Tennyson. Sometimes she thought her whole interest in literature to be an affectation; but undoubtedly she was addicted to erotic poetry and the fire of Swinburne would burn in her veins. All this, too, was hidden from her father, who occupied himself but little with her affairs, and believed that her interests were entirely his own.