It wanted a quarter to five when Mr. Hunter entered. The drawing-room was not lighted, and at first he thought no one was in it. The large fire had burnt down to red embers; as he stood before it, his head and shoulders reflected in the pier-glass, he (perhaps unconsciously) ran his hand through his hair--hair that was darker than it used to be; the once deep auburn had become a reddish-brown, and--_and_--some grey threads mingled with it. "How vain you are!" He started round at the sound--it was the voice he loved so well. Half buried in a lounging chair in the darkest corner was she. She came forward, laughing. "I did not see you," he said, taking her hand "You are here alone!" A conscious blush tinged her cheeks; she knew that she had stayed in the room to wait for him. "They have gone somewhere, Susan and Mrs. Macpherson--to see a new cat of the professor's, I think. I have seen so many of those stuffed animals." "When do you go down home?" "The day after to-morrow. Susan has fixed the second week in January for her visit. Will that time suit you?" "The time might suit," he replied, with a slight stress on the word "time," as if there were something else that might not. "Unless, indeed--" "Unless what?" "Unless I should have left England, I was going to say. An offer has been made me to-day--or rather, to speak more correctly, an intimation that an offer is about to be made me--of some work abroad. If I accept it, it will take me away for a couple of years." She glanced up, and their eyes met. A yearning look of love, of dire tribulation at the news, shone momentarily in hers. Then they were bent on the carpet, and Mr. Hunter looked at the fire--the safest place just then. "Are you obliged to accept it?" she inquired. "Of course not. But it would be very much to my advantage. It would pave the way for--for----" He hesitated. "For what?" "Wealth and honours. I mean such honours (all might not call them so), as are open to one of my profession." A whole array of sentences crowded into her mind--begging him not to go; what would the days be without the sunshine of his presence? They should be far enough apart as things were; he in London, she at home; but the other separation hinted at would be like all that was good in life dying out. This and a great deal more, lay in her thoughts; what she said, however, was cold and quiet enough. "In the event of your remaining at home, then, the second week in January would suit you? It is Susan who has fixed it."