“That’s right. Your way of taking it relieves me infinitely. Do you know that your precipitate refusal of Forfar’s offer has given me a great deal of trouble--most inconsiderate of you to bother a man in this way just on the eve of his wedding. The Chevalier and I have put our heads together, and he has found a berth for you----” “Hang the Chevalier!” cried Mansfield. Cyril went on, unmoved. “He wants an Englishman to act as his agent in superintending his various model farms and gardens in Palestine. He doesn’t expect you to see that he isn’t cheated, for that would be hopeless; but he thinks you are capable of discovering whether the work is done or not, which seems to be rather a moot question at present. It will be a life after your own heart, with plenty of riding about. You will choose a spot that suits you and build your house, and in a year or so I haven’t a doubt you will bring a wife to inhabit it.” “Why you should say that, I don’t know. You know as well as I do----” “Well?” for Mansfield faltered. “That Lady Phil will marry King Michael.” “Don’t you think you are taking things a little too much for granted?” “I don’t know. I don’t care, anyhow. It seems I have to lose everything I care about--first Lady Phil, then you.” Cyril made no answer. Perhaps he had no comfort to offer; perhaps no time to offer it. They were entering the Consulate, and Mr Hicks, who was lounging in the doorway, greeted them with portentous solemnity and an almost imperceptible wink. The guests who had assembled in such a casual way were gathered in one of the larger rooms, and Mr Judson, wearing his surplice, was in readiness. Often as most of those present had pictured this wedding to themselves, they had never anticipated anything like the real scene--the large bare room, hastily decorated with a collection of European nicknacks and Oriental draperies gathered from all corners of the house, the bride wearing her riding-habit and the bridegroom a tweed suit, and the motley assemblage of spectators, in which King Michael stood side by side with the Chevalier Goldberg, and the American journalist rubbed shoulders with the Thracian Court officials. It was only fitting that the pair whose history had at so many points touched that of the Hebrew race should be united by the son of a Jewish convert; but the irony of the occasion found its climax in the fact that the woman who had risked so much in defence of the forms of her religion should be debarred not only from the services of a clergyman of her own church, but even from the use of a consecrated building, and should bear the deprivation without a murmur.