IV.





That night Alan slept little. Even at dinner his hostess, Mrs.
Waterton, noticed his preoccupation; and, on the pretext of a
headache, he retired early to his own bedroom. His mind was full
of Herminia and these strange ideas of hers; how could he listen
with a becoming show of interest to Ethel Waterton's aspirations on
the grand piano after a gipsy life,--oh, a gipsy life for her!--
when in point of fact she was a most insipid blonde from the cover
of a chocolate box? So he went to bed betimes, and there lay long
awake, deep wondering to himself how to act about Herminia.

He was really in love with her. That much he acknowledged frankly.
More profoundly in love than he had ever conceived it possible he
could find himself with any one. Hitherto, he had "considered"
this girl or that, mostly on his mother's or sister's recommendation;
and after observing her critically for a day or two, as he might
have observed a horse or any other intended purchase, he had come to
the conclusion "she wouldn't do," and had ceased to entertain her.
But with Herminia, he was in love. The potent god had come upon
him. That imperious inner monitor which cries aloud to a man, "You
must have this girl, because you can't do without her; you must