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A moment before, Roland had been thinking life perfect. The only crumpled rose-leaf had been the absence of an evening paper. Mr. Windlebird would bring one back with him when he returned from the city, but Roland wanted one now. He was a great follower of county cricket, and he wanted to know how Surrey was faring against Yorkshire. But even this crumpled rose-leaf had been smoothed out, for Johnson, the groom, who happened to be riding into the nearest town on an errand, had promised to bring one back with him. He might appear at any moment now.

The sight of his hostess drove all thoughts of sport out of his mind. She was looking terribly troubled.

It flashed across Roland that both his host and hostess had been unusually silent at dinner the night before; and later, passing Mr. Windlebird’s room on his way to bed, he had heard their voices, low and agitated. Could they have had some bad news?

“Mr. Bleke, I want to speak to you.”

Roland moved like a sympathetic cow, and waited to hear more.

“You were not up when my husband left for the city this morning, or he would have told you himself. Mr. Bleke, I hardly know how to break it to you.”

“Break it to me!”

“My husband advised you to put a very large sum of money in a mine called Wildcat Reefs.”

“Yes. Thirty thousand pounds.”

“As much as that! Oh, Mr. Bleke!”

She began to cry softly. She pressed his hand. Roland gaped at her.

“Mr. Bleke, there has been a terrible slump in Wildcat Reefs. To-day, they may be absolutely worthless.”

Roland felt as if a cold hand had been laid on his spine.

“Wor-worthless!” he stammered.

Mrs. Windlebird looked at him with moist eyes.

“You can imagine how my husband feels about this. It was on his advice that you invested your money. He holds himself directly responsible. He is in a terrible state of mind. He is frantic. He has grown so fond of you, Mr. Bleke, that he can hardly face the thought that he has been the innocent instrument of your trouble.”

* * * * *

Roland felt that it was an admirable comparison. His sensations were precisely those of a leading actor in an earthquake. The solid earth seemed to melt under him.

“We talked it over last night after you had gone to bed, and we came to the conclusion that there was only one honorable step to take. We must make good your losses. We must buy back those shares.”

A ray of hope began to steal over Roland’s horizon.

“But—-” he began.

“There are no buts, really, Mr. Bleke. We should neither of us know a minute’s peace if we didn’t do it. Now, you paid thirty thousand pounds for the shares, you said? Well”–she held out a pink slip of paper to him–“this will make everything all right.”

Roland looked at the check.

“But–but this is signed by you,” he said.

“Yes. You see, if Geoffrey had to sign a check for that amount, it would mean selling out some of his stock, and in his position, with every movement watched by enemies, he can not afford to do it. It might ruin the plans of years. But I have some money of my own. My selling out stock doesn’t matter, you see. I have post-dated the check a week, to give me time to realize on the securities in which my money is invested.”

Roland’s whole nature rose in revolt at this sacrifice. If it had been his host who had made this offer, he would have accepted it. But chivalry forbade his taking this money from a woman. A glow of self-sacrifice warmed him. After all, what was this money of his? He had never had any fun out of it. He had had so little acquaintance with it that for all practical purposes it might never have been his.