She kissed him and watched him from the street door walking along the street, looking brightly this way and that for something to turn up. He returned at six o'clock in the evening, in time for dinner. There was a jaded expression on his face, which vanished the moment his eyes rested on Nansie. "Home, sweet home," he said, passing his arm round her waist, and drinking in her beauty with a grateful spirit. She knew that he had not been successful in his quest, but nevertheless she asked what fortune he had met with. "None at all," he replied; "but Rome wasn't built in a day. We must have patience. I will tell you after dinner what I have done." They had the pleasantest of meals, enlivened by his gayety; and when the things were cleared away and he had lit his cigar, he said: "What can a man wish for more? A good dinner, the sweetest of company, a fine cigar--it was right, was it not, Nansie, for me to keep back three hundred of my choicest?" "Quite right," replied Nansie, "and very thoughtful of you. I love the smell of a good cigar." "When I put them aside," said Kingsley, holding up a reproving forefinger, "I thought only of myself. I reflected that it might be some time before I could afford to buy more of the same kind." "Kingsley," said Nansie, pleadingly. "Yes, dear," he responded. "I want you to understand something." "Anything you wish, Nansie. Let me know what it is." "Only that your disparagement of yourself hurts me, dear. Knowing that there is nothing in the world you would not do for my sake, it is painful to me to think that you may grow into the habit of believing that everything you do is done with a selfish motive. It is not so--indeed, it is not so!" "How seriously you speak, Nansie!" said Kingsley, drawing her close to him. "Do you really mean to say that I am not selfish?" "If there is in the world a man who has proved himself otherwise, it is you, my dear," said Nansie, laying her head upon his shoulder. "Be just to yourself, in justification of me." "That requires elucidation, my dearest," said Kingsley, with great tenderness. "Think of the sacrifice you have made for me, a poor girl, but for whom you would be now at peace with your parents, and in the enjoyment of much, if not of all, that makes life worth living. How low should I fall in your estimation if I were insensible to that sacrifice, if I were to undervalue it, if I were to say: 'It is what any other man in Kingsley's place would have done!'" "Is it not?" he asked, passing his hand fondly over her hair. "No, indeed and indeed it is not. I do not pretend to assert that I know the world as you know it"--there was something whimsical in the expression of unconsciously affected wisdom which stole into Kingsley's face as she uttered these words--"but I know it sufficiently well to be certain that there are few men capable of a sacrifice such as you have made for me. What had I to give in return?" "Love," he answered.