Two tears rolled slowly down her face, and she fumbled hurriedly for her handkerchief.

"Come, come, my beloved Cleo," he exclaimed, taking her into his arms, "allow me to say that. Allow me to regard that kiss in that light. It makes it so perfectly innocent. Didn't you feel that that is what I was driving at? Oh, how easily I could have prevented all this if only Leonetta hadn't dragged so on the way home!"

And then, as they approached the outskirts of Brineweald, they quickly decided on their plan of action. It was settled that only Mrs.

Delarayne, Leonetta, and Stephen should ever know the truth about the accident, and that, even so, Leonetta should not be told until she was sensible enough to see how inevitable and how "natural" it was.

Meanwhile, everyone was to believe that Lord Henry had made a fool of himself,--a fact which, as both he and Cleopatra knew, would afford infinite satisfaction to Miss Mallowcoid, Denis, and the baronet.

Two months later, at about half-past eleven on a drizzly October morning, there was a small and fashionable-looking crowd assembled near the edge of one of the quays at the East India docks, and as the huge Oriental liner moved slowly out into the Thames, five people on its upper deck waved frantically towards this group. They were Cleopatra, Lord Henry, the Tribes, and young Stephen Fearwell.

Again and again Lord Henry waved his hat, and again and again, in the interval of putting it to her eyes, Mrs. Delarayne waved her tiny lace handkerchief back at him.

He noticed that the brave woman was surviving wonderfully the strain of losing for a while the beloved son that she had at last found; but as he turned to call Cleopatra's attention to this, he found that he was obliged to suppress the intended remark for fear of making an ass of himself.

The gigantic steamer grew smaller and smaller, the group on the quay still waved and waved, and then, at last, nothing more could be seen of the travellers.

"Is it a trying journey to China?" Leonetta asked of Aubrey St. Maur, jerking her arm which was enlocked in his, as they turned away from the sight of the oily harbour water.

"Hush!" said St. Maur, glancing ominously at Mrs. Delarayne, who was staggering along between Sir Joseph and Agatha Fearwell's father. "Poor Peachy seems very much upset, doesn't she?"

"Yes, you see," Leonetta replied, "Henry always was her star turn."

_VISITORS BY NIGHT_[2]

_At that deep hour 'twixt midnight and the dawn, When silence and the darkness strive in vain For mastery, and Morpheus hath withdrawn His friendly ward, not to return again; Lo! Fancy's two-winged doorway wide doth yawn And uninvited guests arrive amain.

A fateful suite they hover into sight-- They are the soul's dread visitors by night._

_First come brave Resolutions unfulfilled; With each his spouse, Ambition unattained.

They have the furtive look of conscience skilled In palliating failures unexplained.

Their lips are meek with pride that hath been killed And confidence that hath in sickness waned.

Oh, steel thy heart, thou hapless, sleepless wight, Against these cheerless visitors by night._

_Then come thy throng of petty sins and great, Their sordid secrets branded on their brow.

Still apprehensive of their darksome fate And craving safe concealment as they bow.

What faithfulness they have to come so late When thou hadst half-forgotten them by now.

Oh, for a virtue great enough to affright This ugly brood of visitors by night._

_But these are not the worst; there cometh last A green-clad lady, viperish and ill.

Her bitter lips she biteth and right fast She grappleth with what spirit thou hast still.

Her poisoned words transfix thee till aghast Thou marvellest such aching doth not kill.

Her name is Jealousy, thou wretched wight; The cruellest of visitors by night._

_Then Fancy's two-winged doorway slow doth close.

The birds begin to twitter and to sing.

All nature waketh and on pointed toes Young truant Morpheus stealeth gently in.

Oh, happiness of reinstalled repose, And balsam for thy cold and sweated skin!

'Twas worse than all the nightmares, blessed wight; This vigil with these visitors by night._

[Footnote 2: First published in _The New Age_, October 23, 1919.]