case was that Beadon Clarke was deeply in love with his wife, and had—­so Dion gathered from a remark of Bruce Evelin’s—­probably been induced to take action against her by his mother, Lady Ermyntrude Clarke, who evidently disliked, and perhaps honestly disbelieved in, her daughter-in-law.  There was one child of the marriage, a boy, to whom both the parents were deeply attached.  The elements of tragedy in the drama were accentuated by the power to love possessed by accuser and accused.  As Dion listened to the discussion he realized what a driving terror, what a great black figure, almost monstrous, love can be—­not only the sunshine, but the abysmal darkness of life.

Presently, in a pause, while Daventry was considering some difficult point, Dion remembered that Beatrice was sitting upstairs alone.  Her complete unselfishness always made him feel specially chivalrous towards her.  Now he got up.

“It’s tremendously interesting, but I’m going upstairs to Beattie,” he said.

“Ah, how subtle of you, my boy!” said Bruce Evelin.

“Subtle!  Why?”

“I was just coming to the professional secrets.”

Dion smiled and went off to Beattie.  He found her working quietly, almost dreamily, on one of those fairy garments such as he had seen growing towards its minute full size in the serene hands of his Rosamund.

“You too!” he said, looking down at the filmy white.  “How good you are to us, Beattie!”

He sat down.

“What’s this in your lap?”

The filmy white had been lifted in the process of sewing, and a little exquisitely bound white book was disclosed beneath it.

“May I look?”

“Yes, do.”

Dion took the book up, and read the title, “The Kasidah of Haji Abdu El-Yezdi.”

“I never heard of this.  Where did you get it?”

“Guy Daventry left it here by mistake yesterday.  I must give it to him to-night.”

Dion opened the book, and saw on the title page:  “Cynthia Clarke, Constantinople, October 1896,” written in a curiously powerful, very upright caligraphy.

“It doesn’t belong to Guy.”

“No; it was lent to him by his client, Mrs. Clarke.”

Dion turned some of the leaves of the book, began to read and was immediately absorbed.

“By Jove, it’s wonderful, it’s simply splendid!” he said in a moment.  “Just listen to this: 

“True to thy nature, to thyself,
Fame and disfame nor hope, nor fear;
Enough to thee the still small voice
Aye thundering in thine inner ear.

From self-approval seek applause: 
What ken not men thou kennest thou! 
Spurn every idol others raise: 
Before thine own ideal bow.”

He met the dark eyes of Beatrice.

“You care for that?”

“Yes, very much,” she answered, in her soft and delicate voice.

“Beattie, I believe you live by that,” he said, almost bruskly.