“As there’s a heaven above us,” wrote Lynborough that same night--having been, one would fain hope, telepathically conscious of the hand-kissing by the red lips, of the softly breathed “To-morrow!” (for if he were not, what becomes of Love’s Magic?)--“As there’s a heaven above us, I have succeeded! Her answer is more than a consent--it’s an appreciation. The rogue knew how she stood: she is haughtily, daintily grateful. Does she know how near she drove me to the abominable thing? Almost had I--I, Ambrose Caverly--issued a writ! I should never, in all my life, have got over the feeling of being a bailiff! She has saved me by the rightness of her taste. ‘Knightly’ she called it to old Cromlech. Well, that was in the blood--it had been my own fault if I had lost it, no credit of mine if to some measure I have it still. But to find the recognition! I have lit up the countryside to-night to celebrate that rare discovery. “Rare--yes--yet not doubted. I knew it of her. I believe that I have broken all records--since the Renaissance at least. Love at first sight! Where’s the merit in that? Given the sight be fine enough (a thing that I pray may not admit of doubt in the case of Helena), it is no exploit; it is rather to suffer the inevitable than to achieve the great. But unless the sight of a figure a hundred yards away--and of a back fifty--is to count against me as a practical inspection, I am so supremely lucky as never to have seen her! I have made her for myself--a few tags of description, a noting of the effect on Roger and on Cromlech, mildly (and very unimaginatively) aided my work, I admit--but for the most part, and in all essentials, she, as I love her (for of course I love her, or no amount of Feasts of St John Baptist should have moved me from my path--take that for literal or for metaphorical as ye will!)--is of my own craftsmanship--work of my heart and brain, wrought just as I would have her--as I knew, through all delightful wanderings, that some day she must come to me.