“Mr. Hascombe!” she protested, shrinking away; but Percival had made his leap and nothing could stop him.

“You are mine!” he cried rapturously, pressing her hand again and again to his lips.  “It’s all quite right, my darling.  Don’t be frightened.  We shall be married any time, anywhere you say, to-morrow, if you like, in Hong-Kong.”

“But, Mr. Hascombe—­”

“Not Mr. Hascombe.  Percival, Percy, if you will.  Fancy!  Love at first sight.  One glance on those desolate plains, and you were mine!”

“But I’m not.  That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

He looked at her fatuously.  “But you will be!  My little lady of the manor!  My beautiful little mistress of Hascombe Hall!”

She struggled away from him, and stood at bay.

“How can you talk to me like this?” she cried, her voice trembling with indignation, “after what I told you that day in the wind-shelter?”

“In the wind-shelter?” He looked at her in bewilderment.

“Yea, about Hal Ford and the captain and all that.  Why, you promised to help me, and now—­”

“Hal Ford?” repeated Percival, dazed.  “What has he to do with it?”

“More than anybody else in the world.  He’s waiting for me in Wyoming, and I’m counting the days and the hours and the minutes until I get back to him.  I thought you understood, and were helping me bring the captain around.”

He stood before her too stunned to speak.

Sheer amazement for the moment crowded out the pain.

“But—­but don’t you love me?” he stammered at last.

“Of course I don’t,” said Bobby, almost indignantly; “I never have loved anybody, and I never will love anybody but Hal.”

Then Percival realized that it was quite possible for lightning to strike twice in the same place.  He felt a sudden pain in his throat, a burning under his lids, and he sat down limply.

[Illustration:  “I’m so sorry!” whispered Bobby, putting her arm impulsively around his heaving shoulders]

“I’m so sorry!” whispered Bobby, putting her arm impulsively around his heaving shoulders.  “I thought we were playing a game.  I thought you understood.  Please forgive me, Mr. Hascombe!  Please!  Won’t you?”

He shook off her arm and stood up.  He was whiter than he had been on the night of the accident, but he managed to achieve a smile.

“Nothing whatever to forgive, I assure you.  Just a bit of a bunker, you know.  Silly ass I was, not to have seen it all along.  May I offer my congratulations?” he added.

She took the hand that he hold out, and for a longer time than either of them knew they stood silent, looking out into the vast mystery of the night, while the throbbing strains of “La Paloma” floated up from below, mingling with the music of the rippling water.

“I guess this is good-by,” said Bobby, tremulously.

Then it was that the Honorable Percival illustrated the fact that an English gentleman is often greatest in defeat.