Agnes watched him leaning over her lovingly as she worked at one of her drawings. She watched him and smiled. She knew that the more deeply he fell in love with the girl, the greater would be the blow that he should receive when she told him that she loved another man. Only once the thought occurred to her that perhaps Clare might be carried away by constant association with him, and by the glamour of the countless newspaper articles that appeared on the subject of his work as an explorer; so when they were going upstairs that night she said: “You made a very pretty confession to me a few days ago, my Clare.” “A confession?” “On the day you were visited by your friend, Signor Rodani. “Oh!” The girl's face had become rosy in a moment. “Does your heart remain faithful? You do not think you are likely to change?” “Oh, never, never!” cried Clare. “I may be foolish, but if so, I must remain foolish. Ah, my dear Agnes, my confession was forced from me--I spoke on the impulse of the moment; but I was not the less certain of myself.” “I think you are a girl to be depended on,” said Agnes. “You are not one of those whose fancies change with every new face that comes before them. Good-night, my dear child.” She was now assured of his punishment. As she thought of the way he had come to her, smiling as he repeated that phrase which he had invented--it had become quite a favorite phrase with him--that about the Statute of Limitations in affairs of love, she felt that no punishment could be too great for him. He had talked of Fate in extenuation of his faithlessness. She had heard of people throwing all the blame that was due to themselves upon Fate. When a pretty face comes between a man and his duty he calls it Fate and yields without a struggle. Well, he would soon find out that Fate had not yet done with him. Two days later Clare got a letter from him asking her if she would see him immediately after lunch. He had got some technical instructions to give to her from the publishers; but he had been so closely occupied with his secretaries, he had not been able to call at The Knoll the previous day. Immediately after lunch Agnes found it necessary to go in haste to the village; so that Clare was left alone in the room which had been turned into a studio. When Agnes returned in a couple of hours, she found the girl, not in the studio, but in the drawingroom. The wintry twilight had almost dwindled away. The room was nearly dark. The gleam of a white handkerchief drew her eyes to the sofa, upon which Clare was lying, her face upon one of the cushions. “Why, what on earth is the matter?” she cried. “Why are you lying there? What--tears?” Clare sprang to her feet, touched her eyes once more with her handkerchief, and then flung it away. In another instant she was in Agnes's arms. “Oh, my dearest,” she cried, “I am only crying because I am so happy. Never was any one so happy before since the beginning of the world. He has been here.”