first in which it had been impossible for Harold to avoid receiving marked preference, and the jealousy hitherto averted by Eustace’s incredible vanity had begun to awaken.  Moreover, that there had been some marked rebuff from Viola was also plain, for, as the Arked carriage was seen coming round, and I said we must go in to the Tracys, Eustace muttered, “Nasty little stuck-up thing; catch me making up to her again!”

It was just as well that Harold did not hear, having, at sight of the carriage, gone off to fetch a favourite cup, the mending of which he had contrived for Viola at the potteries.  When we came into the drawing-room, I found Lady Diana and Mrs. Alison with their heads very close together over some samples of Welsh wool, and Dermot lying on the sofa, his hands clasped behind his head, and his sister hanging over him, with her cheeks of the colour that made her beautiful.

The two elder ladies closed on Eustace directly to congratulate him on the success of his arrangements, and Dermot jumped up from the sofa, while Viola caught hold of my hand, and we all made for the window which opened on the terrace.  “Tell her,” said Viola to her brother, as we stood outside.

Dermot smiled, saying, “Only that Sir James thinks he has to-day seen one of the most remarkable men he ever met in his life.”

“And he has promised to help him to Prometesky’s pardon,” I said; while Viola, instead of speaking, leaped up and kissed me for joy.  “He is to go to London about it.”

“Yes,” Dermot said.  “Sir James wants him to meet some friends, who will be glad to pick his brains about New South Wales.  Hallo, Harry!  I congratulate you.  You’ve achieved greatness.”

“You’ve achieved a better thing,” said Viola, with her eyes beaming upon him.

“I hope so,” he said in an under tone.

“I am so glad,” with a whole heart in the four words.

“Thank you,” he said.  “This was all that was wanting.”

The words must have come out in spite of himself, for he coloured up to the roots of his hair as they ended.  And Viola not only coloured too, but the moisture sprang into her fawn-like eyes.  Dermot and I looked at each other, both knowing what it meant.

That instant Lady Diana called, and Dermot, the first of all, stooped under the window to give his sister time, and in the little bustle to which he amiably submitted about wraps and a glass of wine, Lady Diana failed to look at her daughter’s cheeks and eyes.  Viola never even thanked Harold for the cup, which he put into her lap after she was seated beside Dermot’s feet on the back seat of the carriage.  She only bent her head under her broad hat, and there was a clasp of the two hands.

I turned to go up to my sitting-room.  Harold came after me and shut the door.

“Lucy,” he said, “may one give thanks for such things?”