"Uncle Rad," said Luke at last in deep puzzlement, "has never raised his voice once. I thought that there would be a row--that he would turn the man out of the house. Dear old chap! he hasn't much patience as a rule." "What shall we do, Luke?" she asked. "How do you mean?" "You can't go on standing like that in the hall as if you were eavesdropping. The servants will be coming through presently." "You are right, Lou," he said, "as usual. I'll go into the dining-room. I could hear there if anything suspicious was happening in the library." "You are not afraid, Luke?" "For Uncle Rad, you mean?" "Of course." "I hardly know whether I am or not. No," he added decisively after a moment's hesitation, "I am not afraid of violence--the fellow whom we saw in the park did not look that sort." He led Louisa back into the dining-room, where a couple of footmen were clearing away the luncheon things. The melancholy Parker placed cigar box and matches on a side table and then retired--silent and with a wealth of reproach expressed in his round, beady eyes. Soon Luke and Louisa were alone. He smoked and she sat in a deep arm-chair close to him saying nothing, for both knew what went on in the other's mind. Close on an hour went by and then the tinkle of a distant bell broke the silence. Voices were heard somewhat louder of tone in the library, and Lord Radclyffe's sounded quite distinct and firm. "I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, "at Mr.---- Tell me the name and address again, please." The door leading from library to hall was opened. A footman helped the stranger on with coat and hat. Then the street door banged to again, and once more the house lapsed into silence and gloom. "I think I had better go now." Louisa rose, and Luke said in matter-of-fact tones: "I'll put you into a cab." "No," she said, "I prefer to walk. I am going straight back to the Langham. Will you go to the Ducies' At Home to-night?" "Yes," he said, "just to see you." "You'll know more by then." "I shall know all there is to know." "Luke," she said, "you are not afraid?" It was the second time she had put the question to him, but this time its purport was a very different one. He understood it nevertheless, for he replied simply: "Only for you." "Why for me?" "Because, Lou, you are just all the world to me--and a man must feel a little afraid when he thinks he may lose the world." "Not me, Luke," she said, "you would not lose me--whatever happened." "Let me get you a cab." He was English, you see, and could not manage to say anything just then. The floodgates of sentiment might burst asunder now with the slightest word uttered that was not strictly commonplace. Louisa understood, else she had not loved him as she did. It never occurred to her to think that he was indifferent. Nay more! his sudden transition from sentiment to the calling of a cab--from sentiment to the trivialities of life pleased her in its very essence of incongruity.