" Voices being heard at the door, Austin flew to open it, and admitted Mr. ‘In love? I? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s John. If he adhered to this policy—to keep away from her inconspicuously—she would forget the name by night, and to-morrow even the bearer of it would sink below the level of recollection. . Then, after Capes had been through her work and had gone on, it came to her that the fabric of this life of hers was doomed to almost immediate collapse; that in a little while these studies would cease, and perhaps she would never set eyes on him again. !" "I understand," interrupted McClintock. She was silent. Wood, meantime, had not remained idle. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. She was radiant. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person.
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