Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. “You remember our first meeting?” “Yes,” he answered hoarsely. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. But the indecision, which had been fatal to his race, was fatal to him. The marriage cannot—shall not be delayed.
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