Was it possible he would be able to redeem his life from its gloom and shadows? Could he win the heart he prized, the beautiful girl of whom he had scarcely dared think while he was bound in Lelia’s cruel chains? He knew she was in London, the guest of one of his father’s near cousins, Lady Warrington, who had presented her at court this season. He knew how much she had been admired, how many suitors she had had, how the admiring Londoners called her “the American beauty.” All this he had gleaned from the newspapers, that hinted also at an engagement with young Lord Warrington. It might be true, and, if so, it would be a splendid match. Warrington was worthy a princess for his true manliness. Rosalind was a match for a prince. Rosalind, how dearly he loved that name since she had borne it. It made him think of flowers and sunshine, of singing birds and rippling streams, of everything sweet and fair. His heart throbbed fast with a memory of her dainty loveliness, her dark eyes, her red lips, like twin ripe cherries; her cloud of dark fragrant hair. It was all engraven on his heart, though he had not seen her for more than a year. She had been traveling in the Old World, too, ever since last fall, but he had never been near to her, never given her greeting. Lelia’s husband knew that it was better so. “World wide apart, although so near, He breathed her charmed atmosphere.” With a thrill of delirious joy he thought of seeing her again--aye, even though she belonged to Warrington--of seeing her even once again. He would go to London to-morrow, he would not put it off a day longer, and he would find out if there was any hope for him, or if Warrington had won. It was a restless night he spent, and a restless journey he made. That evening saw him entering his cousin’s grand house, The Larches. It was young Warrington himself that came to greet him with profuse welcomes. “I knew you were over here somewhere, and wondered why you didn’t drop in,” he said. Then, with some embarrassment: “We read in the papers to-day about the--ah, your wife, you know. Is it true?” “The divorce? Oh, yes; father wrote me to-day it was granted. It helped advertise her, you know. I suppose next thing she will be on the stage impersonating her own heroines. She always had dramatic ability.” “Yes, and wonderful beauty. Really, I cannot understand----” He threw a puzzled glance on Willoughby, who replied with perfect composure: “Oh, the separation? Well, it was nothing serious, just incompatibility, you know. We could never get on together.” “I hope it does not hurt.” “Oh, no, it rather comes as a relief. As a man, I was too courteous to seek relief, but I am grateful, all the same. I can even forgive her for making me a catspaw to get advertising for her play. Now, Warrington, I’ve read things in the papers, too, about you and--and Miss Whitney. Are they true? May I congratulate you?”