.

WHAT LOVE IS.
"Well, now, Armand, what is it ?" asked Blakeney, the moment the footsteps of his friends had died away down the stone stairs, and their voices had ceased to echo in the distance.
"You guessed, then, that there was...

something ?" said the younger man, after a slight hesitation.
"Of course." Armand rose, pushing the chair away from him with an impatient nervy gesture.

Burying his hands in the pockets of his breeches, he began striding up and down the room, a dark, troubled expression in his face, a deep frown between his eyes.
Blakeney had once more taken up his favourite position, sitting on the corner of the table, his broad shoulders interposed between the lamp and the rest of the room.

He was apparently taking no notice of Armand, but only intent on the delicate operation of polishing his nails.
Suddenly the young man paused in his restless walk and stood in front of his friend--an earnest, solemn, determined figure.
"Blakeney," he said, "I cannot leave Paris to-morrow." Sir Percy made no reply.