The evening passed unremarkably. Mr. Dugdale and his daughter came to dinner; Colin could not appear, and the conversation was general. Giles made futile efforts to hold aloof from Phyllys, and only succeeded in seeing nobody else. Through the night following he had no sleep. Two wakeful hours he spent in bed; then he got up and dressed, and let himself out of the house to walk fast and far in moonlight, fighting a tough battle. He had to come to a decision. The earlier intention held now no force; and its failure only served to show more truly how things stood. On arrival he had made his way into the studio, as was his wont, expecting to find Colin absorbed in his beloved occupation, caring for naught else, wrapped up in the effort to reproduce in clay some form of beauty. He had been told that Mrs. Keith was out; he had taken for granted that Phyllys was with her. And when he stood within the studio door it was to see—not Colin only, but Phyllys also; the two seated together; Phyllys with downcast eyes and soft flush, and a look upon the sweet face which "he" had never been able to evoke; while Colin's gaze, and the light in those blue eyes, told the worst! At the instant Giles' one sensation had been of furious wrath against Colin for daring to interfere with "his" love—wrath that he would have felt towards any man. Already in his secret soul he looked upon Phyllys as his own. But, in the silence of his room before luncheon, far more in the dimness of the moonlit lanes at night, other counsels succeeded. Other elements would not be defined. It was no simple matter of two men, both in love with one girl, waiting to see which she might prefer. The question really was—if Colin had set his heart on Phyllys, ought Giles to seek her at all? Ought he not at once to give up the thought? As an abstract question this carried no difficulty. To his mind the duty was plain. If Colin loved Phyllys, the right step for him was to leave the coast clear. Years earlier, under peculiar circumstances, he had made a definite resolve never to stand in the way of Colin's happiness; never to allow himself any good which might react in the form of pain for Colin. He had registered this vow in the recesses of his heart. It rose up and faced him, while he hurried through lonely lanes, unable to see his way. Cold moonlight, flooding fields on either side, seemed alive with one word, "Remember!" Black tree-shadows, lying in patches at his feet, echoed "Remember!" The creak of an elm-bough, swayed by the breeze, groaned "Remember!" The cry of an owl sounded the same solemn "Remember!" He did remember. He would never forget the heartbreaking misery, the awful load of woe, which had culminated in that resolve. If life should last a hundred years, each incident of those days would remain vivid to the last.