Common-sense died away within him.

The matter-of-fact man of thirty was ready to tread in the footsteps of this great predecessor, and play the modern knight-errant with the whole-heartedness of Don Quixote himself.

He fancied himself by her side, and his heart leaped with joy of it.

He thought no more of abandoned cricket matches and neglected house parties.

A finger of fire had been laid upon his somewhat torpid flesh and blood.
"Well ?" Andrew asked.
Duncombe returned to the table, and laid the picture down with a reluctance which he could scarcely conceal.
"Very nice photograph," he remarked.