der in her eye. I read in her glance, methought, that she was interested. I suddenly recalled the last words I had heard spoken by my friend's adviser in London: "Instead of dying you 'd better marry." If Miss Searle could be gently manipulated. O for a certain divine tact! Something assured me that her heart was virgin soil; that sentiment had never bloomed there. If I could but sow the seed! There lurked within her the perfect image of one of the patient wives of old.
"He has lost his heart to England," I said. "He ought to have been born here."
"And yet," said Miss Searle, "he's not in the least an Englishman."
"How do you know that?"
"I hardly know how. I never talked with a foreigner before; but he looks and talks as I have fancied foreigners."
"Yes, he's foreign enough!"
"Is he married?"
"He's a widower,—without children."
"Has he property?"
"Very little."
"But enough to travel?"
I meditated. "He has not expected to travel far," I said at last. "You know he's in poor health."
"Poor gentleman! So I fancied."
"He's better, though, than he thinks. He came
