“You shall not tell me a word if you do so in order to appease my curiosity,” she began earnestly.

“I think it is best that you should know,” he interrupted.  “One favor first.  You will earn my eternal gratitude if you do not allow Grace to feel that you have discovered our secret.”

“You have my promise.  I have kept many secrets, Mr. Ridge.”  He drew his chair quite close to hers.  Then he told her the full story of the adventure, from first to last.  She scarcely breathed, so deeply was her interest centred in this little history of an impulse.  He spoke hurriedly, excitedly.  Not once did she take her eyes from his earnest face, almost indistinguishable in the darkness; nor could he remove his from hers.

“And here we are approaching Aden, your Ladyship,” he concluded.  Her big dark eyes had held him enthralled, inspiring him to paint in glorious colors every detail of the remarkable journey.  As he drew to a close, her hand fell involuntarily on his knee.  A tremor dashed through his veins, and his heart throbbed fiercely.

“How glorious it must be to love like that,” she almost whispered.  There was a catch in her voice, as she uttered that soft, dreamy sentence, almost a sigh.  She turned her face away suddenly and then arose, crying in tones so low and despairing that he could hardly believe they came from the usually merry lips:  “Oh, how I envy her this life and love!  How wonderful it all is!”

“It has its drawbacks,” he lamented.  “As a brother I am a nonentity, Lady Huntingford; it’s not altogether relishable, you know.  It’s a sort of pantomime, for me, by Jove.  I’m the fool, and this seems to be the fool’s errand.”

“If you will play a part in the pantomime, Mr. Ridge, let an Englishwoman suggest that you be the harlequin.  How I loved the harlequin in the Drury Lane pantomimes at Christmas time!  He was always the ideal lover to me, for there was no trick, no prank this bespangled hero could not play to success.  He always went incognito, for he wore his narrow mask of black.  He performed the most marvellous things for his Columbine,—­and was she not a worthy sweetheart?  No, no, Mr. Ridge:—­not the fool, I pray.  Please be the harlequin,” she cried in rare good humor.

“As you like it,” he said, reflecting her spirits.  “I am the harlequin and this is, perforce, the harlequin’s errand.”  They were silent for a long time, then he said soberly: 

“It was such a foolish thing to do, after all.”  She looked up at him for a moment, the bitterness fading from her hungry eyes, a smile struggling feebly into power.  Then came the radiance of enthusiasm.

“Foolish!” she exclaimed, with eyes sparkling and breast heaving.  “It was magnificent!  What a brave girl she is!  Oh, how clever you both are and how much you will enjoy the memory of this wonderful trip.  It will always be fresh and novel to you—­you will never forget one moment of its raptures.  How I wish I could have done something like this.  If I dared, I would kiss that brave, lucky girl a thousand times.”