Robert Orange

t make up the condition known as happiness would neither convince, nor inspire, the powers of an imagination which, with all its richness, was, apart from the purely artistic fac

subject, whether sublime or simple-was dispelled. The Park, which was empty but for a few men on their way to work, and runners anxious to keep in training, had its great trees still beautiful from the lingering glance of summer; the wide and misty stretches of grey grass were fresh in dew; the softness and haze-without the gloom-of autumn were in the atmosphere. The pride of love requ

lievers of our

y felt, nor cle

e and falte

rrow the groun

his bride's face, the pure curves of her mouth, her sapphirine eyes, her pretty hands, her golden hair, the nose which others found fault with, which he, nevertheless, thought wholly delightful. He wondered what she would say and how she would look when they met. Would she be pale? Would she be frightened? There had always been a certain agony in every former meeting because of the farewell which had to follow. With all his habits of self-control, he had never been able to feel quite sure that the word too much would not be said, that the glance too long would not be given. Her own simplicity, he told himself, had saved him from disaster. She showed her affection so fearlessly-wi

onted and genuine excitement about Robert's marriage. He put aside the languor, ennui, and depression which he felt

slow to appreciate, yet most tenacious of when once convinced of their use. The nuptial mass had been fixed for eight o'clock, the wedding party were to breakfast at Almouth House afterwards, then the bride and groom were to leave by the mail for Southampton en route for Miraflores in Northern France. The two young men drove together to the chapel attached to the Alberian

at bronze crucifix. Ten to one if it isn't genuine eleventh century. I will ask the old fellow afterwards. He's a dear. His Latin is lovely. It's an

er nerves and senses were strained to that extreme tension resembling apathy, until the vibration given by some touch or tone sets the whole system trembling with all the spiritual and bodily forces which make the mystery of human life. She spoke her responses, signed the register, and walked out from the church on Robert's arm without a single change of countenance or token of feeling. As they drove away from the church, she flushed a little and drew far back, with a new timidity, into her corner. One look she gave of perfect love and confidence. She pressed his hand and held it, for a moment, against her cheek. But neither of them spoke. And indeed, what was there to be said? The identification of their two minds had been full and absolute from the moment of their first encounter long ago in Chambord. The accidental differences of sex and age, training, accomplishments, and education had not affected-and could not affect-a sympathy in temperament which depended-not on the similarity of opinions-but on a similarity of moral fibre. Many forms can be cut, by the same hand, from the same piece of marble, and although one may be a grotesque and the other

sdom directs their fulfilment. Neither passers-by nor other vehicles, neither houses nor streets caught the entranced attention of these young lovers. The delight of being purely self-absorbed is very great and intoxicating to those who are constantly-either by desire or the force of circumstances-unselfish. A faint flush swept into Brigit's face under the effect of an

ight House last night. She had the little dressing-room just off it. D

" said Robert; "and wa

en. Brigit's actual physical beauty returned. The sunshine stole in at the open window and lit up her golden hair, which was half hid

I have given it to you for all time. And if you are ever tired, or dis

l be with me

wered. "Yes, R

slight and delicate for the pavement. Robert knew that her arm rested upon his, becaus

her on the way from chur

t hold with kissing," said he; "to my mind there's nothing

forthcoming marriage of the "best man," and expressed the faltering hope that "dear Agnes would be as happy as dear Brigit." Reckage scowled. Rennes was seized with a fit of coughing. It was the one unlucky hit in the whole conversation, and it was soon forgotten by every one present except Orange, who remembered it frequently in later days. At last the hour for departure came. Pensée, weepi

rld for the first ti

ted into the barouche

d, as she parted from Reckage;

cided to smoke, for they were both a litt

they returned to the dining-room, "expla

er, with a forced laugh, "but there are m

wn. Orange is romantic and scrupulous-he knows next to nothing of the sensual life;

mperament. The wonder is that he has not entered,

s how this marriage will turn out. He is madly in love. He has suffered fr

so sure

enough-if he has a woman to his taste and wine which he considers good. You

appiness was a delusion. He knew better. He said, 'Do not trust it, but seek the happiness which hath no end.' Personally, I can accept with gratitude as much as I can get. 'Is not the life of men upon

t a lot, I can s

him a quick, f

ng for the half-hearted. But if I am not sad, I am not especially gay. The middle course between sentimentality and gallantry seems to me intimately immoral and ridiculous into the bargain. So

is the portrait going? My brother Hercy, who paints a little, alwa

d Rennes;