Anyhow, there it was! He was enduring no Calvary, and his heart played none of the tricks it would have played once at being awakened by Juliet's voice, with the request for a meeting alone with him. All he felt was sympathetic interest, and a fear that the girl was coming to say she'd made a hash of things, in spite of his advice. In precisely twenty-five minutes after the first call of the telephone bell in his ear, he was dressed, and criticising the arrangement of La France roses on the table in his new sitting room. Sharp on the half hour, again came the jangling call. "Lady for you, sir. Says she's your cousin, and it's not necessary to give her name. You're expecting her." "Quite right," Manners answered. "Send her up at once. I'll meet her at the lift." Which he did, and got rather a shock at seeing Juliet all in black--even a black veil. "I don't think I _ever_ saw you dressed like that before," he began, leading her to the sitting room. "I thought you always hated black clothes." "So I did. So I do. That's the reason I'm wearing them to-day," the girl almost breathlessly explained. "I suppose you'll think it's melodramatic of me, and maybe it is, though I don't feel so. I wanted to put on mourning." "Good heavens! What for?" "My happiness." If she had been less beautiful, that announcement certainly would have sounded a melodramatic note--or else it would have been funny. But she was so white, so big eyed, so like a broken lily in her black draperies, that Jack's heart yearned over her. She leaned to him wistfully, as they stood just inside the closed door, her hands in his; and the man knew suddenly that it would be perfectly safe and good for him to take her in his arms. He held them out, having dropped her hands, and the girl flung herself on his breast as she used to do when she was ten, if a finger had been cut or a knee bruised. The next moment she was crying on his shoulder as though her heart would break, her slim young body an incarnate sob as it heaved and shook in his clasp. "Oh, Jack, you're the only one I have in the world now!" she gasped. "Nonsense, nonsense, child. You've got Claremanagh. You'll always have him," he soothed her. "This is some passing trouble. It will blow over. Tell me all about it. But no, first you must have breakfast. You haven't had bite or sup, I'll bet!" History repeated itself. Again his handkerchief was out. He wiped her eyes with it. He mopped them. How long and dark her lashes were, wet and clinging together! He bent over her, and kissed her forehead. It was hot, and she smelled like a ripe, delicious peach. But his pulses hardly tingled. He was too sorry for her, however, to analyze his own feelings much, or even think of himself, although after years the Adored One--married, and belonging to another man--was in his arms!