crêpe-de-chine, and her large leaf-shaped fan, she looked like one of those delicate little figures men find in the olive-woods near Tanagra; and there was a touch of Greek grace in her pose and attitude.  Yet she was not petite.  She was simply perfectly proportioned—a rare thing in an age when so many women are either over life-size or insignificant.

Now as Lord Arthur looked at her, he was filled with the terrible pity that is born of love.  He felt that to marry her, with the doom of murder hanging over his head, would be a betrayal like that of Judas, a sin worse than any the Borgia had ever dreamed of.  What happiness could there be for them, when at any moment he might be called upon to carry out the awful prophecy written in his hand?  What manner of life would be theirs while Fate still held this fearful fortune in the scales?  The marriage must be postponed, at all costs.  Of this he was quite resolved.  Ardently though he loved the girl, and the mere touch of her fingers, when they sat together, made each nerve of his body thrill with exquisite joy, he recognised none the less clearly where his duty lay, and was fully conscious of the fact that he had no right to marry until he had committed the murder.  This done, he could stand before the altar with Sybil Merton, and give his life into her hands without terror of wrongdoing.  This done, he could take her to his arms, knowing that she would never have to blush for him, never have to hang her head in shame.  But done it must be first; and the sooner the better for both.

Many men in his position would have preferred the primrose path of dalliance to the steep heights of duty; but Lord Arthur was too conscientious to set pleasure above principle.  There was more than mere passion in his love; and Sybil was to him a symbol of all that is good and noble.  For a moment he had a natural repugnance against what h