It was probably contemptible of me not to have coughed, or blown my nose, or something, in the first ten seconds. But the whole speech did not occupy very many seconds in the making, and was half finished before I realised, with a stunning shock, what it meant. It went on after the last words I have written here, but at that point I retired, backward, into the hall to collect myself, as they say. I had various brilliant ideas in the few seconds given to this process. I saw myself, pitiless but full of dignity, inflicting scathing punishment of various kinds, and piling blazing coals of fire upon Mabel's pretty head. I thought, too, of merely disappearing, and leaving conscience to make martyrdom of my fair lady's life. But perhaps I doubted the inquisitorial capacity of her conscience. At all events, in the end, I rattled the drawing-room door-handle vigorously, and re-entered with a portentous clearing of the throat. There was a flutter and patter in the conservatory, and then the hitherto adored one came in to me, an open book in her hand, and witchery in both her liquid eyes. And then a most embarrassing and unexpected thing happened. My wrath fell from me, carrying with it all my smarting sense of humiliation, and every vestige of the desire to humiliate or punish Mabel. I was left horribly unprotected, because conscious only of the totally unexpected fact that Mabel was still adorable, and that now, when about to leave her for ever, I wanted her more than at any previous time. Then help came to me. I heard a tiny footfall, light as a leaf's touch, on the paved floor of the conservatory. I pictured the listening Hester Prinsep, and pride, or some useful substitute therefor, came to my aid. 'I'm afraid I've interrupted you,' I said, making a huge effort to avoid seeing the witchery in Mabel's eyes. 'I only came to bring this book for Mrs. Foster. I had promised it.' 'But why so solemn, poor knight? What's wrong? Won't you sit down?' said Mabel gaily. 'No, I mustn't stay,' I replied, with Spartan firmness. And then, on a sudden impulse: 'Don't you think we've both been rather mistaken, Mabel? I've been silly and presumptuous, because, of course, I'm nobody--just a penniless newspaper reporter. And you--you are very dear and sweet, and will soon marry some one who can give you a house like this, in Potts Point. I--I've all my way to make yet, and--and so I'd like to say good-bye. And--thank you ever so much for always having been so sweet and so patient. Good-bye!' 'Why? Aren't you--Won't you--Good-bye then!' And so I passed out; and, having quite relinquished any thought of reprisals, I believe perhaps I did, after all, bring a momentary twinge of remorse to pretty, giddy Mabel Foster. I never saw her again but once, and that as a mere acquaintance, and when almost a year had passed. XX