"Whatever could he do it for?" said Madame Mila, as she whirled away again in the encircling arm of her Maurice: to Madame Mila such trifles as duty, patriotism, or self-sacrifice could not possibly be any motive power amongst rational creatures. "Whatever could he do it for?—I suppose to soften Hilda. But he must know very little about her; she hates anything romantic; you heard she called it foolhardy. He never will be anything to her, not if he try for ten years. She cares about him after her fashion, but she cares much more about herself."
Lady Hilda did not sleep that night.
She did not even lie down; dry-eyed and with fever in her veins, she sat by the window watching the bright pale gold of the morning widen over the skies, and the sea-green depths of the river catch the first sun-rays and mirror them.
She was so proud of him—ah heaven, so proud! The courage of her temper answered to the courage of his action. It was Heraklean—it was Homeric—that going forth single-handed
