"I shall not want you again to-night.

We shoot in the morning." The man silently took his leave, and Dominey commenced his preparations for bed.

He was in no humour for sleep, however, and, still attired in his shirt and trousers, he wrapped a dressing-gown around him, drew a reading lamp to his side, and threw himself into an easy-chair, a book in his hand.

It was some time before he realised that the volume was upside down, and even when he had righted it, the words he saw had no meaning for him.

All the time a queer procession of women's faces was passing before his eyes--Caroline, with her half-flirtatious, wholly sentimental _bon camaraderie_; Stephanie, with her voluptuous figure and passion-lit eyes; and then, blotting the others utterly out of his thoughts and memory, Rosamund, with all the sweetness of life shining out of her eager face.