Meantime, however, Mr. Courtland thought it well to call upon Mr. Ayrton in order to thank him for his kindness in replying in the House of Commons so effectively to the questions put to the various ministers by Mr. Apthomas; and Mr. Ayrton had asked Mr. Courtland to dinner, and Mr. Courtland had accepted the invitation, Miss Ayrton begging Mrs. Linton to be of the party, and Mrs. Linton yielding to her petition without demur.

CHAPTER XVI.

WOULD IT BE WELL WITH MY HUSBAND?

It was on their way back from this little dinner-party that Mr. Courtland confessed to Ella Linton that he had come to think of her dearest friend as a most charming and original girl; she had never once referred to his achievements in New Guinea, nor had she asked him to write his name in her birthday book.  Yes, she was not as other girls.

“I’m so delighted to hear you say so much,” said Ella.  “Oh, Bertie! why not make yourself happy with a sweet girl such as she, and give no more thought to such absurdities as you have been indulging in?  Believe me, you don’t know so well as I do in what direction your happiness lies.”

“I don’t know anything about happiness,” said he.  “I don’t seem to care much, either.  When I made up my mind to find the meteor-bird, don’t you suppose that there were many people who told me that, even if it was found, it was quite unlikely that it would be more succulent eating than a Dorking chicken?  I’m sure they were right.  You see, I didn’t go to New Guinea in search of a barndoor fowl.  I don’t want domestic happiness, I don’t want anything but you—­you are my meteor-bird.  I found, after my first visit to New Guinea, that it was impossible for me to rest until I had found the meteor-bird.  I have found that it is impossible for me to live without you, my beloved.”

“You will have to learn to live without me,” said she, laying her hand upon his.  They had now reached her house, so that no immediate reply was possible.  He did not attempt to make a reply until they had gone into a small drawing room, and she had flung off her wrap.  They were alone.

Then he knelt on the rug before her and took both her hands in his own—­a hand in each of his hands—­as they lay on her dress.  His face was close to hers:  she was in a low chair.  Each could hear the sound of the other’s breathing—­the sound of the other’s heart-beats.  That duet went on for some minutes—­the most perfect music in life—­the music which is life itself—­the music by which man becomes immortal.

“Do not hold me any longer, Bertie,” said she.  “Kiss me and go away—­away.  Oh, why should you ever come back?  I believe that, if you loved me, you would go away and never come back.  Oh, what is this farce that is being played between us?  It is unworthy of either of us!”

“A farce?  A tragedy!” said he.  “I want you, Ella.  I told you that I could not live without you.”