But, in Everard’s case, she who still held his heart captive did so all unwittingly. She had rejected his proffered love and all was at an end between them. He could never hope to win her for his wife, but that seemed to him no reason, however little such a course might recommend itself to his cooler judgment, why he should not go on loving her just as he had done all along, In any case, he did go on loving her, nor did it seem possible to him that a time should ever come when he could do otherwise. He knew that in all human probability the day was not far distant when he should hear the news of her marriage with another, and he tried to school himself by anticipation, so that when the shock should come, he might be enabled to bear it with manly equanimity. On a certain morning, as Sir Gilbert Clare and Everard Lisle were engaged together in the library at Withington Chase, a servant entered carrying a highly-glazed card on a salver. “I have shown the gentleman into the morning-room, sir,” said the man as he presented the card. Sir Gilbert took it and adjusted his _pince-nez_. “Captain Verinder,” he read aloud. “Have no recollection of anyone of that name. Um-um. I suppose I must go and see what he wants me for.” Then, to the man, “Tell Captain Verinder I will be with him immediately.” The Captain had come down from town by an early train and had made his way on foot from the railway station to the Chase. He had not seen anything of the old mansion on the occasion of his previous visit, and as he drew near, approaching it by way of the drive, he could not help being much impressed, not merely by its size and the noble simplicity of its façade, but by the old-time air of stately, if somewhat faded, dignity which seemed as integral a part of it as the ivy which clung round its gables and chimneys, or the patches of many-coloured lichen with which time had encrusted its high-pitched roof. Nor was this impression lessened when, in response to his summons, a servant in livery opened wide the great double doors, and having taken his card, ushered him through the big echoing hall, hung with trophies of war and the chase, into a charming room furnished in the Empire style—although, to be sure, the gilding was tarnished and the coverings of chairs and lounges considerably the worse for wear—which looked out through its long windows on a gay parterre of flowers, and was shut in with a sort of sweet privacy by a semi-circular hedge of laurel and box. And here Sir Gilbert found his visitor some three minutes later.