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“What became of your father and your brother?” she asked in a neutral tone.

“I don’t know anything about my father. He disappeared after I left, and never turned up again. And Jim–poor Jim!–he was shiftless. Jim was a tanner. It was no good setting him up in business. Steady income was the cheapest way. But Jim died of too much time on his hands. His son is in Mexico somewhere. I sent him there, and I hope he’ll stay. If he doesn’t, his salary stops: he is shiftless too. That is not the kind of thing, and they are not the kind of people you know best, Miss Raglan.”

He looked at her, eyes full-front, bravely, honestly, ready to face the worst. Her head was turned away.

He nodded to himself. It was as he feared.

At that moment a boy came running along the walk towards them, and handed Mr. Vandewaters a telegram. He gave the lad a few pence, then, with an apology, opened the telegram. Presently he whistled softly, in a quick surprised way. Then he stuffed the paper into his waistcoat pocket, threw away his cigar, and turned to Gracia Raglan, whose face as yet was only half towards him. “I hope your news is good,” she said very quietly.

“Pretty bad, in a way,” he answered. “I have lost a couple of millions–maybe a little more.”

She gasped, and turned an astonished face on him. He saw her startled look, and laughed.

“Does it not worry you?” she asked.

“I have got more important things on hand just now,” he answered. “Very much more important,” he added, and there was that in his voice which made her turn away her head again.

“I suppose,” he went on, “that the story you have just heard is not the kind of an autobiography you would care to have told in your drawing-room?”

Still she did not reply; but her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. “No: I suppose not,” he went on–“I–I suppose not. And yet, do you know, Miss Raglan, I don’t feel a bit ashamed of it, after all: which may be evidence of my lost condition.”

Now she turned to him with a wonderful light in her eyes, her sweet, strong face rich with feeling. She put out her hand to his arm, and touched it quickly, nervously.

“Your story has touched me inexpressibly,” she said. “I did not know that men could be so strong and frank and courageous as you. I did not know that men could be so great; that any man could think more of what a woman thought of–of his life’s story–than of”–she paused, and then gave a trembling little laugh–“of two millions or more.”

He got to his feet, and faced her. “You–you are a woman, by heaven!” he said. “You are finer even than I thought you. I am not worthy to ask you what I had in my mind to ask you; but there is no man in God’s universe who would prize you as I do. I may be a poor man before sundown. If that happens, though, I shall remember the place where I had the biggest moment of my life, and the woman who made that moment possible.”

Now she also rose. There was a brave high look in her face; but her voice shook a little as she said: “You have never been a coward, why be a coward now?”

Smiling, he slowly answered: “I wouldn’t if I were sure about my dollars.”

She did not reply, but glanced down, not with coquetry, but because she could not stand the furnace of his eyes.

“You said a moment ago,” she ventured, “that you have had one big moment in your life. Oughtn’t it to bring you good fortune?”

“It will–it will,” he said, reaching his hand towards hers.

“No, no,” she rejoined archly. “I am going. Please do not follow me.” Then, over her shoulder, as she left him: “If you have luck, I shall want a subscription for my hospital.”