The man who won

by Mrs. Baillie Reynolds

That Lance should admire Melicent was in itself no bad thing. It was no doubt well that Bert should not find himself alone in the field. But as the days went by, it was clear to Carol, who thought of nothing else, and watched all that went on, that Millie was, by her own conduct, whether of set purpose or no, leading Lance on to be serious, where at first he had merely been making holiday.

For Lance she broke through the crystal armour of "stand-offishness" which she usually wore. She talked to him; as a rule, she listened only to men, saying little. But she gave to Lance looks, smiles, and low tones.

To Bert her manner was quite friendly, even cordial, as from an unknown artist to her first patron. But of good fellowship there was not a trace. So clever was she that in all this fortnight Carol had not been able to determine whether it was by accident or design that she had never for one minute been tête-à-tête with Captain Brooke. Had he known the girl as thoroughly as he knew the man, the underlying strain must have been visible to him as it was to two who loved and understood her—Brenda Helston and Mr. Hall. Brenda thought she knew its cause—that it was the result of the sudden fulfilling of the girl's hopes, the terror lest her first great effort should end in failure, and her professional prospects be injured by her having undertaken what was beyond her powers.

This was in a measure true. But not the whole truth. Melicent's real preoccupation lay deeper; it was more complicated. How could she build Bert's house, and keep clear of Bert himself?

If she meant to have nothing to do with him, as she vehemently did, was it honest, was it wise, was it even sensible, to go on with the building?

But pride was at present a far stronger factor with Millie than self-sacrifice. At the first suggestion that she should design a really big thing, her ambitions had flown skyward. In spite of her secret knowledge, she knew that she meant to go on.

"That's a fine fellow, that friend of yours, Captain Brooke," said Mr. Hall musingly to Carol, as they paused to look at the first game of tennis that season, now in progress on the Helston's court at Glen Royd.

"Yes; he's an unusual person," said Mayne. "He says odd things at times. Last night, up at Ilbersdale, we got talking in the smoking-room about the different things men mean when they speak of love. Most of the things said had the materialistic tendency which I find to be characteristic of English thought to-day. Then suddenly Brooke, who seldom argues, came out with his opinion. He said that the difference between passion and love was comparable to the difference between fact and truth. They asked him to define the difference between fact and truth, and he answered without a moment's hesitation that he thought that was obvious; fact is temporal and truth eternal. How does that strike you?"

"Then he suggested that passion is temporal, and love eternal, just in the same way?"

"Yes; I have been thinking it out, and there's a deal of truth in it. One of the men asked him how you were to distinguish between the temporal thing and the eternal, and he quite simply answered that you could only tell in the result. They then said much what was said to Christ on the subject—that it is not good to marry. He replied that we were in the same case with all big things. We have to take chances in life. Nobody can say how anything will turn out until they try. He said, in love, as in religion, as in art, as in all big business undertakings, you don't have to hold an opinion merely, but to live a life. They chaffed him tremendously about being a devout lover, but it had simply no effect at all upon him."