Then came one autumn night when, after a long and busy day, Stratton made up his mind to go to Bourne Square, undid it, made up his mind again, once more undid it, and determined that he would no longer play the moth round the bright candle. He had dressed, and, throwing off his light coat and crush hat, he went out of his rooms and along the landing to Brettison's. "I'll go and talk botany," he said. "Life is too valuable to waste upon a heartless woman." He knocked; no answer. Again; no reply. "Gone out," he said. "What shall I do?" Stratton hesitated for a few moments, and then went and fetched his hat and coat, descended, took a cab, and ordered the man to drive to Guest's, in Grey's Inn. "Better have stopped at home," muttered Stratton; "he will talk about nothing else but Bourne Square." But he was wrong. Guest was out, so descending into the square, and walking out into Holborn, Stratton took another cab. "Where to, sir?" "Bourne Square." Stratton sank back in his seat perfectly convinced that he had said Benchers' Inn, and he started out of a reverie when the cab stopped at the admiral's door. "Fate," he muttered. "It was no doing of mine." Andrews admitted him as a matter of course, and led the way to the drawing room, where he announced his name. Myra started from a couch, where she had been sitting alone, dreaming; and as Stratton advanced his pulses began to beat heavily, for never had the woman he idolised looked so beautiful as then. There was a faint flush in her soft, creamy cheeks, the trace of emotion in her heaving bosom, as she greeted him consciously; for she had been sitting alone, thinking of him and his proposal to her father, and the next minute the door had been opened, and he stood before her. "It is almost by accident that I am here," he said, in a low voice full of emotion, which he vainly strove to control. "Your cousin? The admiral?" "Did you not know?" said Myra in a voice as deep and tremulous as his own. "Mr Guest came with tickets for the opera. He knew my father liked the one played to-night--`Faust.'" "Indeed!" said Stratton huskily. "He goes for the sake of the great scene of the return of the men from the war. I think he would never tire of hearing that grand march." She left the couch, conscious of a strange feeling of agitation, and, crossing to the piano, seated herself, and began to play softly the second strain in the spirit-stirring composition, gradually gliding into the jewel song quite unconsciously, and with trembling fingers. Then she awoke to the fact that Stratton had followed her to the instrument, against which he leaned, with the tones thrilling his nerves, tones set vibrating by the touch of hands that he would have given worlds to clasp in his own, while he poured forth the words struggling for exit.