"But what a chance for an adventurer!" said Alice, with a face aglow.

Lewis looked up at the slim figure in the chair above him, and caught
the gleam of dark eyes.

"Well, some day, Miss Wishart--who knows?" he said slowly and
carelessly.

But three people looked at him, Bertha, his aunt, and Mr. Stocks, and
three people saw the same thing. His face had closed up like a steel
trap. It was no longer the kindly, humorous face of the sportsman and
good fellow, but the keen, resolute face of the fighter, the schemer,
the man of daring. The lines about his chin and brow seemed to tighten
and strengthen and steel, while the grey eyes had for a moment a glint
of fire.

Three people never forgot that face. It was a pity that the lady at his
side was prevented from seeing it by her position, for otherwise life
might have gone differently with both. But the things which we call
chance are in the power of the Fateful Goddesses who reserve their right
to juggle with poor humanity.

Alice only heard the words, but they pleased her. Mr. Stocks fell
farther into the background of disfavour. She had imagination and fire
as well as common sense. It was the purple and fine gold which first
caught her fancy, though on reflection she might decide for the
hodden-grey. So she was very gracious to the young adventurer. And
Arthur's brows grew dark as Erebus.