Once more the music passed away into the clouds. It was the gate into Paradise over which he had leaned, but the gate was locked, and as he stood there it seemed to grow higher and higher, until he could not even see over the top. Almost roughly he turned away. "Quite right," he muttered. "I must not touch the Princess of my fairy garden. Only let us go back now, please. I cannot stay here any longer." She obeyed at once. There was a queer, pathetic little droop at the corners of her lips, and she avoided his eyes. "Good-bye!" he said. His tone was dull and spiritless. Something, for the moment, seemed to have passed from him. He seemed, indeed, to lack both inspiration and courage. Her fingers clung slightly to his. She was praying, even, that he might laugh to scorn her unspoken appeal. He moved a yard away and stood looking at her. Her heart began to beat wildly. Surely her prayer would be granted! The light of adoration was coming back to his eyes. "I cannot see the truth!" he cried hoarsely. "You belong to me--I feel that you belong to me! You are part of the great life. I have found you--you are mine! And yet . . . I feel I mustn't touch you. I don't understand. Perhaps I shall come back." He turned and hurried off. She watched him until he was a speck upon the road; watched him, even then, from among the shadows of the trees. There was a lump in her throat and a misty light in her eyes. She had forgotten everything that had seemed absurd to her in this strange little romance. Her eyes and her arms, almost her lips, were calling him to her. CHAPTER XII A BOLT FROM THE BLUE Burton's life moved for a time among the easy places. The sub-editor of the Piccadilly Gazette, to which he still contributed, voluntarily increased his scale of pay and was insatiable in his demand for copy. Burton moved into pleasant rooms in a sunny corner of an old-fashioned square. He sent Ellen three pounds a week--all she would accept--and save for a dull pain at his heart which seldom left him, he found much pleasure in life. Then came the first little break in the clear sky. Mr. Waddington came in to see him one day and Mr. Waddington was looking distinctly worried. He was neatly and tastefully dressed, and his demeanor had lost all its old offensiveness. His manner, too, was immensely improved. His tone was almost gentle. Nevertheless, there was a perplexed frown upon his forehead and an anxious look in his eyes. "Business all right, I hope?" Burton asked him, after he had welcomed his late employer, installed him in an easy chair and pushed a box of cigarettes towards him. "It is better than all right," Mr. Waddington replied. "It is wonderful. We have never had such crowds at the sales, and I have taken on four more clerks in the house-letting department." Burton laughed softly. The humor of the auctioneer's position appealed to him immensely.