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The fascination that she had exercised over him would return.

They would be happy together. His life with her would be

beautiful and pure.

He got up from his chair and drew a large screen right in front

of the portrait, shuddering as he glanced at it. "How horrible!"

he murmured to himself, and he walked across to the window and

opened it. When he stepped out on to the grass, he drew a deep

breath. The fresh morning air seemed to drive away all his sombre

passions. He thought only of Sibyl. A faint echo of his love came

back to him. He repeated her name over and over again. The birds

that were singing in the dew-drenched garden seemed to be telling

the flowers about her.

CHAPTER VIII.