“I wrote to General ——­ on the night I saw you last, accepting his offer,” Clare answered.  “Of course I am in duty bound, therefore, to report in Cairo as soon as possible.”

“And you will sell Claremont?”

“I have no alternative.”

She said nothing more, but he saw her hand—­the same white jeweled hand that had gleamed on his arm in the starlight—­go to her throat with a quick, convulsive movement.  Instead of the thrill of repulsion which he had felt before, a sudden sense of pity and regret came over him now.  He was not enough of a puppy to feel a certain keen enjoyment and gratified vanity in the realization of this woman’s folly.  He appreciated, on the contrary, how entirely she had been a spoiled child of fortune all her life—­a queen-regnant, to whom all things must submit themselves—­and he felt how bitter must be this first sharp proof of her own impotence to secure the toy on which she had set her heart.  It was these thoughts which made his voice almost gentle when he spoke again:  “You must not think that I am ungrateful for your kind interest in my behalf.  You can imagine, perhaps, how much I hate to part with Claremont, which has been the seat of my family for generations; but when a thing must be done there is no use in making a moan over it.  I cannot sacrifice my life to a tradition of the past; and that would be what I should do if I clung to the old place, instead of cutting loose with one sharp stroke and swimming boldly out to sea.”

“But you might stay if you would,” said she with that tremulous accent which the French call “tears in the voice.”

“No, I could not stay,” said Clare resolutely.  “I have no money, nor any means of making any in America.”

This ended the discussion.  Even Mrs. Lancaster, fast and daring and willful as she was, could not say, “I have money—­more than I know what to do with:  take it.”  Her eyes said as much, but Clare did not look at her eyes.  A minute longer passed in embarrassed silence.  Then somebody came up, and Victor was able to walk away.  As he crossed the room he saw Eleanor Milbourne for the first time since his arrival.  He had not even inquired if she was still at The Willows, and her unexpected appearance, for he had begun to fear that she was gone, filled him with a rush of feelings of which the first and most prominent was delight.  After all, did it matter whether or not she was engaged to Marston Brent?  Simply to look at her was enough to fill a man’s soul with pleasure, to steep him in that “dewlight of repose” which only a few rare things on this earth of ours are capable of inspiring.  Did any sane person ever fly from the sight of Venus when she held her court all alone in the lovely summer heaven, because he could not possess her magic lustre for his own?  The comparison was not at all highflown to Clare, whatever it may seem to anybody else.  He had always entertained as much hope of winning the star