The wedding was over. Mrs. Phillips had become Mrs. Herbert. The accounts were in all the papers, the guests were mentioned, and the bride’s attire was described. She wore mauve, a bonnet, and what was not mentioned, a nervous air. The known dangers of matrimony are worse in anticipation, and more true, than the maiden bride’s assurance of eternal bliss.

“Miss Archer, an American beauty,” said the Chronicler, “accompanied her to the altar, and handed her a smelling-bottle.”

Mr. and Mrs. Herbert departed amid no rice and no old slippers. Lily would not have them. They went to hear the nightingales, and to remember Rubinstein’s song:

For one whole week the weather was glorious and unchangeable.

Launa was alone in Victoria Mansions. Mr. George visited her with frequency, and so did Mr. Wainbridge.

Mr. George often came in the morning.

“I am at my worst early, Launa,” he said, “and then I long for strong measures. You are a strong measure. Your name is so perfect, I could not spoil it with a Miss,” he added apologetically.

All the old women would have called her a bold Canadian had they not remembered her money and success. England conquered and annexed her Colonies; do not their maidens annex her young men?

Launa missed her father; between them there was a perfect relationship; their minds were in tune; she was so certain of his love and care that she feared no diminution thereof. He wrote to her often, and she thought of shutting up the flat and going to join him.

On Lily’s wedding day, Mr. Wainbridge told her he was obliged to travel with his uncle for six weeks. The uncle, Lord Wainbridge, had just constructed a novel; it contained a pinch of all the crazes of the day, and was clever, but not moral. Lord Wainbridge became uneasy, and Lady Wainbridge rampant with rage (designated in this case Christian solicitude about his fall) when she read it. She said the want of morals was his own. She said many things which he did not mind when she only gave utterance to them; but he feared ridicule as he feared nothing else; she said he would be laughed at, so he fled to his nephew, who always had sympathy for him.

Launa received the tidings of Mr. Wainbridge’s departure with indifference, though she did feel it. And he decided that her lack of vanity was her one fault. She really appeared as if she did not care whether she attracted him or not. But she thought very much about him. His interest in her was pleasant. It was more. It was necessary to her, as much as anything can be necessary over which we have no control, and without which we must live if it is withdrawn.

The day of his last visit they spent in reading, when he would have much rather talked. But she had a new book.

“How queer it is that the charm of so few poems lasts,” she said. “What I loved at sixteen I loathe now, and I suppose what I love now I shall hate at thirty-five.”

“We change. You do not love a comic song when your heart aches.”

“I have no heart.”

“Because I said that, you think I meant your heart,” he replied. “I did not.”

“Your own then?”

“Perhaps. Do you believe we are responsible for evil?”

“I do not know. Are we responsible for what we cannot help? I could not condemn any one but myself. The existence of evil is true, but how horrible! And how it spoils our lives.”

“Spoils our lives,” he repeated. “You are quite right! Tell me, can a man or a woman love two people at once? Is it possible to love evil and good?”

Launa grew pale.

“No one can love evil.”

“You are right,” he said, with triumph. “It is not love then. To do right, one should love something, someone.”

“Yes,” she half whispered, “love someone, even if they are beyond one’s reach.”

“You have comforted me. I must say good-bye, now. No, I will see you once again, to-night. In six weeks I shall come back, and I shall be glad—glad. What shall you be?”

She did not answer, but stood up and walked across the room to look at a photograph. She would never go back to Canada, never.

“Where did you get that photograph?” he asked. “Is it new? Who is it?”

It was Paul. She had kept it locked up until now.

“It is no one you know. It is only a picture which reminds me of evil.”

“Take it down—shall I?”

“No, no,” she said sharply. “We are terribly in earnest,” she added, and gave a little laugh.

She went to the window and looked out. The lights were flashing, and the roar of the city came up to her.

“Good-bye,” he said, taking her hand. “Good-bye—Behüt dich Gott.”

That night Launa went to a dance, which lasted until three in the morning. She wore pink, and looked beautiful. The lust for slaughter, for conquest, for admiration entered into her. She could not love any man, she assured herself, while she knew that she thought only of Paul. But she possessed power. She could hurt, and for that one night she gloried in it. This was what the man on the steamer had meant; this was deadening; this was life and din; there was no time to think.

Mr. Wainbridge was there; she gave him one dance only, and he was angry, though he rejoiced when Mr. George said to him:—

“Launa is miserable. Her eyes are unhappy; she is feeling something.”

She had expressed herself as yearning for Norway, and that was all; but Mr. Wainbridge thought she wanted him.

The next morning she slept until it was late; she was very tired; When her letters were brought to her she did not open them. She lazily drank her tea and looked at the post-marks, wondering from whom they were. She sent a wire to her father, saying she would like to join him at once.

While she was dressing her maid brought her a telegram. It might be about her new dress, or Lady Blake’s picnic, or the concert at which she was to play.

This was what she read:—

Stevens was a friend who had joined her father.

Launa looked at it; dying—not dead. She drank her tea. It was, it must be some detestable, horrible dream.

By twelve o’clock her boxes were packed; and Launa and her maid started on their long, almost useless, journey. To sit still and wait was impossible, it was like watching for someone who never came. The train tore along, and the trees seemed to wave their branches like hungry, relentless demons, as if they would clutch all men; the sea was cruel, and the steamer outrageously slow.

And Launa was too late.

After an absence of one week she came back to London, crushed, weary, and heart-sick. Her life seemed to be over. She had seen him again, but he was dead. There was nothing she could do, it was all over. If only she had Paul! She could have screamed with the torture of fate. She realised the disappointment of life, that nothing could be as it had been. A new life might come to her, but she could never gather the old one together again. Perhaps some day she would be reminded of the past when she had forgotten. To be reminded it is necessary to have forgotten. But now she suffered—now she wanted everything she had not. She felt the torture of the vain longing for the impossible; a blister on her body would have been a relief; there was one on her soul. She wished she had told her father about Paul; she wished she could forget Paul; she wished he were there with her, and then she resolved again to forget him.

She wrote to Mr. Wainbridge and told him of her terrible trouble. It was a relief to pour out her mind to someone who understood, and to whom she could say mad things—whether he sympathised or not she did not care.

She was rich, and inundated with letters of sympathy. Each writer considered herself the one consoler Launa required. Men do not write that kind of letter; they merely leave cards.

Mrs. Carden sent pages of lamentation and exhortation, interspersed with demands for one interview, just one, with her dearest Launa.

Lily Herbert came up to town for the day. She was sorry for Launa when she could remember to be so. It was with great difficulty she could disguise the cheerful grin her countenance had assumed since her marriage. She could not understand Launa’s abandonment to grief. If Sir John had died Lily would have wept, when reflecting on her lonely position, and then have smiled over the patterns of new mourning.

Launa remained dumb to her and with her; Lily realised at last, with a certain sort of awe, that Launa was stricken; that she was full of sorrow which was not easily ended, and that she could not bear attempts at consolation, which were merely, and only could be, attempts. Who can raise the dead? Launa passed through the lonely dark valley of nevermore—of hunger for one face, for one word, which is so intense as to be torture, and to which was added the desire for the presence of a man whom she felt was unfaithful to her. Could she bear another man’s kisses? How could he then kiss another woman?

To stay in London was impossible for her, and so she chose to go to a little village in Derbyshire which her father had loved as a boy. The Black Country, with its barren moors and lonely stonewalled hills, attracted her; the warm valleys full of bracken and alder bushes, through which the rushing mountain streams tore, had a wild beauty and a lulling power. It was very lonely and bleak. She could walk for miles without seeing anyone, and the people she did meet were for the most part only villagers. Much as she longed to see “Solitude” again, she felt the impossibility of going there.

During all these long, long days of sorrow and direful longing, Mr. Wainbridge wrote to her. Almost every day a letter came, and she began to look for them and to answer them. At first she had only sent him scrawls, but he had gradually drifted into an intimate—a most intimate friend.

She often re-read his letters, and there was more in them than the actual words said. She gave him credit for an intuition which he did not possess. He loved her, and he divined that she did not love him; she could almost love him for that. Women usually love men for imaginary qualities. She thought him brave and pure; she fancied he loved what she did, instead of which he loved her. Her personality made life interesting; her playing made music an everlasting joy.

The day after she was settled at Fair View she had a long letter from him in answer to her first coherent one.

A course of these letters was very comforting. To be necessary to someone is what many women are obliged to be, instead of being loved.

The days were long and full of pain. She did not grow accustomed to it. The wound was as open and sore as at first. It was a relief to be alone, and to be allowed to be sorrowful. There was no peace, no joy anywhere.

Lily Herbert as Lily Phillips had realised the importance of keeping her husband’s love, not his toleration. Mr. Phillips had been affectionate always, and she had tolerated him. She remembered it all; she had been so relieved and glad when he was away from her, his kisses nauseated her.

With Herbert life was joy, and, had she not firmly believed it could not last, real happiness would have been hers.

Their honeymoon had lasted for three weeks, three weeks of absolute happiness, tempered only by her husband’s reflections of sorrow for Launa—for he admired Launa. Lily did likewise, and she feared her, too. Lily wondered whether she was to be the one who cared most; in all marriages one cares more than the other. She had always felt a contempt for women who show they care while their husbands seem indifferent. She blamed them; they were no longer desirable to their husbands; they were within reach. Someone must lead, so she took it: fear lest he should change or grow tired lent terror to all her ideas and movements.

They were staying in Surrey. The house was small, with a garden which was a bower of roses, with beautiful lawns and large cedar trees. They lived out of doors. Mr. Herbert did not work, and she took to embroidery. He told her she looked absolutely lovely when she sewed.

She laughed.

“There is something syren-like about you,” he said. “You will never grow old; you could not become unattractive.”

“Thank you.”

“Is that all—is that all you are going to say to me, only thank you?”

“All,” she said.

He came over by her.

“Your hands are so beautiful. I would like to live like this always.”

“It would not be always June and warm,” she said.

“I love you, love you absolutely—what can change it?”

“What?” she repeated, even while she feared. “Don’t ask, you will spoil it.”

“You never—will not often let me kiss you. Why is it?”

“I hate kissing.”

“I will kiss you,” he said masterfully. “You are mine, mine, mine. You are an enchantress, a witch. When I am with you, or away from you, I think of nothing but you. My life is all you.”

He took her in his arms gently. She remembered with a shudder those horrible embraces of her first marriage. He kissed her lips, those warm red lips which were one of her chief beauties; but it was all done so gently.

“You were afraid of me,” he said. “Heavens! here is someone coming to call.”

“And you have crushed my blouse,” she said reproachfully.

It was Lady Blake.

“How are you both?” she asked, as she rustled towards them, pretty, smiling, and glancing from one to the other.

“Very happy,” said Mr. Herbert. “The nightingales are still singing.”

“Ah,” said Lady Blake, as she seated herself in his chair, and accepted a cushion from him. “Happy—there is something subdued about happiness. I want you to come and stay with me.”

“When is your uncle coming home?” Lily said to her husband.

“In a week,” he replied.

“In a week then,” said Mrs. Herbert, “we would like to come to you.”

After Lady Blake left he said:

“And now it is over.”

“Not over,” she answered, “just beginning. We stay at Blake House for two weeks, and then papa wants us.”

Mr. Herbert acquiesced. He had given in to her conditions, and he knew what she did not or pretended not to believe, that he loved her with all his soul. He would go with cheerfulness to Lady Blake’s, anything to prolong the honeymoon, and he hoped Lily would forget her proposed arrangement when they returned to town. That oblivion might descend on her mind he prayed!

After their visits they went back to London.

They arrived one morning about twelve, and drove to her flat in Sloane Street, he had his luggage sent to his rooms which were two streets further on.

“I think we might take a larger flat,” he suggested. “It would be cheaper and less trouble.”

She laughed and answered:

“By and by. You remember our bargain? We are not to grow tired like other people or to see too much of each other—enough of each other.”

“And so one of us is to be always miserable,” he said.

“Isn’t it better?” she asked. “Isn’t anything better than for either of us to be tired?”

There were tears in her eyes.

“No, my beloved, it is not better. Will you not think it over? Will you—” he held her hand. “We are so happy, we shall be always. It will last, I swear it will—”

The cab stopped and she got out.

She gave herself a little shake as she went up in the lift. How perilously near giving in she had been! What would it be to her to lose the lover? A husband is a poor exchange. No, she would be firm.

The little flat looked very pretty, there were flowers everywhere. Her two maids welcomed her with smiles and blushes. Lunch was ready.

Mrs. Herbert went to take off her hat. Her own room was decorated with white flowers; it was a dear little white and green room.

“I should like to wash my hands,” said her husband meekly.

“Yes, you may. I will show you my room. Now that we are married I can show you everything. There is a delightful sensation of freedom as well as of bondage in matrimony.”

She took him into her room and left him there.

“That is my spare room,” she said, and pointed to a door. “It will be your room when I ask you to stay here.”

“There is something unusually novel in being asked to stay with one’s wife. It is as if you had me on approval.”

“Don’t say that,” she suggested. “No, you belong to me now.”

“I wish I did. You are like the angel with the drawn sword at the gate of the Garden of Eden. He was not placed there until after Eve had eaten the apple. I suppose I have had a bite of my apple.”

“You are anticipating. You are borrowing trouble. Wash your hands and come to lunch.”

He looked into the next room. It was yellow and white, and dainty and fresh. A row of his boots would disfigure it. His bachelor quarters seemed so dull in comparison. The faint smell of violets came from her clothes, he used her hair brush, and looked at her shoes lingeringly.

They ate their lunch and smoked afterwards.

“This is lovely!” he said, with a sigh.

“And how unlike matrimony. The average husband likes to use his authority at first, and says he will have the pictures altered, and he cannot sleep in a bed which runs from east to west, or from north to south or—”

He looked at her rather sadly.

“You are not an average wife, and I am little more than a bachelor even now.”

“You are a very nice one.”

“Will you come and see my abode? You have seen my sitting-room, but Mrs. Grant has it all done up, and so you must pay me a visit.”

“Do you remember one day when I went to have tea with you, and Mrs. Carson disappointed us? How terrified I was that someone might see me, though you told the minion to say you were out. Every time the bell rang I thought it was a man who would force his way in; do you remember?”

“Do I not remember? Put on your hat.”

“I will change my dress. You will wait?”

“For ever,” with a smile and a glance.

So far they both felt matrimony a success; desire had not failed. When would it?

Joy was clouded by apprehension in her mind; in his there was no doubt, no fear. He knew himself better than she did. They walked together to his rooms. He showed her all over them. His housekeeper, Mrs. Grant, welcomed her. She too had arranged flowers in plenty.

“How will you have this room furnished?” he asked, as he threw open the door. It was a large room, the best one in a set of four. It had been his work-room, but he had given it up for another, and a dark one.

“This is to be your room when you come to stay.”

She smiled. There was a touch of genius in his suggestion—more a touch of impropriety—which appealed to her.

“You will ask me to stay?”

“Sometimes,” he replied. “Not too often, lest you grow weary of me and find fault with the housekeeping.”

“Pale pink would be pretty for the room decorations, and also be becoming. I would come more frequently if it were becoming.” She turned to look at his pictures. “Oh! here is a photograph of Launa. She gave it to you?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“She is beautiful, and what a queer girl! I had no idea her father’s death would make her so wretched. She was perfectly crushed. She behaved as if he were her lover.”

“He was very fond of her.”

“He was devoted to her. I cannot quite make her out. She is—there is a history somewhere. I did not know she had given you her photograph. I suppose she gave them to everyone. She did not keep them only for people she cared for. I am glad,” she said suddenly, “that I have enough money to do without yours.”

“I can give you presents.”

“And ask me to stay.”

“For always. I ask you now,” he said. “I beg you. Will you stay always with me? Not in these rooms, but we can have one flat together.”

“You promised,” she answered, with a slightly unsteady voice. “You promised—don’t.”

To remind a man of his promise when he wants to break it, frequently means the woman would not mind if he did, and if he insists she will give in. It betrays weakness. He put his arms round her and said nothing, but he gave no orders for the immediate furnishing of one large flat. Her experiment should be tried. He had no desire or intention of forcing her to give in nor of being master; just then she would have liked him to be master, but how can a man know these things?

They went back to her rooms for dinner. She put on a creamy gown trimmed with lace; he gave her some pale pink roses and fastened them on. He never forgot her flowers.

In the evening they sat in the big window and looked out at the moon—it rose, a big round shining moon. They were silent. At last she said:

“The stars are larger than the moon, but how faint beside it. The moon is nearer.”

“That is what one feels sometimes,” he answered. “One loves the stars, but the moon is nearer.”

“Yes, it is nearer. Would you feel so? Am I the moon or a star? Of what are you thinking?”

“Of you.”

“Of me. Think of something nice.”

“You are not nice. You are original, and that is never nice. How lonely I shall be to-night!”

“And I.”

Here Mr. George walked in.

“I have come,” he said, “to condole with you both on being married.”

“How kind of you!” said Lily.

“And to ask you, Mrs. Herbert, whether the bird in the hand is worth two in the bush? There were two in your bush. Do gratify my desire—my ardent desire—for information.”

“I will,” she replied. “First I must give you some coffee and ask you to look at the moon.”

“Moon,” repeated Mr. George. “There are many moons; this is the old moon, not your kind, and this one is lovely. Was your moon full of honey?”

“No,” replied Mr. Herbert, lighting a cigarette, “ours was without anything sickly or monotonous.”

“Or satiating?”

“Exactly,” answered Mr. Herbert.

“Tell me now, Mrs. Herbert, about the bush. Is it not better to have two in the bush than the bird in your hand?”

“Are you asking merely as a journalist, Mr. George? Or do you honestly desire information?”

“I desire honest information and information honestly.”

“Two in the bush,” she repeated.

“Sir Ralph and Mr. Buxton,” suggested the inquirer softly. “Perhaps you prefer the bird in your hand as well as the two in the bush, for they are still there. They have returned to town, and are looking more cheerful than they appeared at your wedding. If you remember, they left that festive scene early, before your departure for the desert of matrimony.”

“The bird in the hand is enough for me,” said Lily, “enough now.”

“Ah!” said her husband, with an air of abstraction, “now.”

“Yes, now,” she said defiantly.

“Now,” repeated Mr. George, with exaggerated emphasis. “Why are we all talking of now? Tell me about Launa, Mrs. Herbert? Where is she?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Herbert, “where is she?”

“I will make you both a present of her address,” said Lily. “She will not see you; you can both write volumes to her, and you, Mr. George, will at once rush by the night or the morning train to see her.”

“No, time and distance will merely mellow her affection for me. I am very fond of her, too fond, for I love her.”

“Dear me,” said Lily. “In what way do you love her? Hopelessly, madly, platonically, or matrimonially?”

“Not matrimonially, because I could never tire of her; not platonically, platonic people are too clever and enjoy their experiences too much to be indifferent, but they never want to kiss each other. I might—”

“These are revelations,” said Mr. Herbert.

“Go on,” commanded Lily.

“I can’t. Launa is perfect. I fear she does not love me. When I call her Launa, her eyelids never quiver. Did you ever quiver, Mrs. Herbert?”

“Never.”

“You are intellectual. I am going to write a book and call it ‘Marriage.’ There will be various assortments in it. Platonic matrimony is interesting.”

“Very,” said Lily.

She went away to get the address for him.

“Wainbridge is very fond of Miss Archer,” said George, when he was alone with Herbert.

“She looked ill when I last saw her. I am going to write to her.”

“Tell her—”

“Tell her what?” asked Lily, returning as he spoke.

“That we are perfectly, indefinitely happy.”

“How unlucky of you, Jack. You never should boast about happiness. It will go. How dreadful of you. I know something will go wrong.”

“You have no nerve,” said Mr. Herbert.

“These connubial differences so early in your matrimonial career are most embarrassing,” said Mr. George. “Later you will seldom or never differ, or differ altogether. Thus do the early quarrels of husband and wife evolve themselves. I must go.”

“Shall we ever become indifferent?” she asked. “Shall we ever grow old and cold and—?”

“Grey,” interrupted Herbert. “The moon will change and not shine.”

They gazed at each other as if appalled by their remarks.

“Anyway the moon does not shine solely for you,” said Mr. George. “Farewell.”

Mr. Herbert accompanied him to the door, and when he came back to her, Lily said:

“Good-night, you must go home.”

“It is so late for me to be out, and I want to stay with you.”

“No. You must go,” she said.

“May I come to breakfast?”

“At a quarter-past nine.”

“Good-night, my darling, my—good-night.”

He lingered. He was loath to go, and she almost said, “Stay, never go;” but she did not say it, and so he left her.

She missed him. He had gone away indifferently, and had not seemed to mind. She had ordered a special breakfast for him next day. Where had he gone after leaving her? The moon and the star comparison returned to her mind. Then she wrote to Sir Ralph Egerton, telling him to come to see her. Had Jack borne their first parting with indifference?

It was part of the plan that the wife should not worry whether her husband suffered indifference or any other malady. Worry causes sleepless nights and wrinkles. Mrs. Herbert went to bed, but the moon shone in and she could not sleep. She hoped he could not; nor did he.

Mrs. Herbert was at home. Her drawing-room had been crowded. Sir Ralph Egerton had paid his first visit, and was more admiring, more devoted than ever. Lily had increased in value in his eyes now that another man had appropriated her. Her desirability was greater because she was out of reach.

Lily was looking particularly well. Sir Ralph had brought her a wedding present and an invitation to go to the play with him. The guests had all left, and he had not succeeded in persuading her to come when Mr. Wainbridge came in, followed by Mr. Herbert.

“Sir Ralph wants me to go to the theatre to-night,” she said, turning to her husband. “You are not asked.”

“I shall be delighted if you will come,” said Sir Ralph politely.

“I cannot,” answered Mr. Herbert. “You have forgotten your engagement, Lily, to come with me.”

“So I have. Sir Ralph, will you dine here to-morrow night and we can go somewhere? I won’t ask you, dear,” she said to her husband, “for you would not be amused.”

“Many thanks, I will come at eight to-morrow,” said Sir Ralph. “Good-bye.”

“Tell me about yourself,” said Lily to Mr. Wainbridge. “How are you?”

Mr. Herbert left them alone.

“I am very well. I want you to help me.”

“To help you?”

“Will you try to get Miss Archer to come back to town? I cannot go to Derbyshire to see her.”

“You want to see her?”

“Very much.”

“I will do what I can. You want to marry her?”

“Perhaps.”

“Marriage is not peace—not always.”

“It is better than separation and distance,” he replied. “Where are you and your husband going?”

“Out—to the opera and then to supper somewhere.”

After he went away Lily wrote to Launa and then dressed and went out with her husband. They were so happy when they were together, and his absences, ordered by herself, were so trying—he was kind and strong, moreover he loved her. How terrible if he were to forget, to grow cold! She hardened her heart—her way was the best. She forgot that a day comes when passion must grow cooler; then it is that friendship seasoned by passion takes its place, and makes life rest and sweetness. She was torn with jealousy lest he might care for some other woman, for if he were to, he would not settle down to the dull, assured matrimonial existence when he grew used to her, and probably seek amusement elsewhere. This was her way of keeping his love. She let him see her seldom, not often alone. He heard of her flirtations from herself. She loved him absolutely, and she feared the force of her love might cause his to grow cold, therefore she kept him at a distance and hungered for a sign, for a caress from him, while she never betrayed her feelings.

The next day Launa received the following letter. She was starting for a long walk when it came, and read it on the way.

Launa went across the moor to the “Cat and Fiddle.” Only by long walks could she kill the restlessness which overcame her. She was longing to hear some music again, and Lily’s letter arrived at exactly the very best time for Mr. Wainbridge.

Mr. Wainbridge wrote almost every day. He sent her books, music, and flowers. He tried to induce her to come to town. He told her that he loved her with a love of the soul, that his one longing was to comfort her, to endeavour to make up for the grief and despair of the past. She thought of him with interest. He possessed the glamour of a lover for her without any of the disadvantages of being enamoured herself. This was an affection of the mind—a soul-love that he felt for her; it lulled her into security. She resolved to leave in a week for London, there to begin her music again.

As she walked home across the moor, she thought of the days at “Solitude” with her father—she felt old and sad. Work only was left; her aspirations on first coming to London seemed the foolish yearnings of a child for the moon. She would do something—play, work, and forget with her heart and soul, and also she would care for some person. This unsatisfied longing for the woods, for her father and the old life must be crushed, and speedily. How easy it was to label her longings! She did not add the desire for one word from Paul to them, and yet that was the greatest one of all. Lily’s suggestion that she might intend to go to Canada again filled her with loathing. How could she face “Solitude”?

And so she and her maid journeyed to Victoria Mansions. Lily came to welcome her, and expressed herself as being enchanted with life, though really Jack and she were starting on an unsatisfactory wild-goose chase. Occasionally they had a day together—sometimes he merely came to dine when she was having a party. Sir Ralph spent many and long days with her; they went about together, and Jack waited. He had a firm belief in his own future with her. She would tire of this life and be glad to rest, and know he would care always.

When Launa had set her house in order, and had the piano tuned, she began to take music lessons again.

Mr. Wainbridge came at once to see her. She wanted to take up their friendship where they had left it before their letter-writing; he had added the letters, the wishes and imaginings of their separation to it. At first this intentional game of cross-purposes amused him. She would not understand what any one might have seen.

She wanted friendship, only bounded by all the old opinions, with love-making confined to books. There was a grey shadow between her and love-making. Mr. Wainbridge saw it and was patient.

About this time Launa met the Coopers. Mrs. Cooper was a relic as well as a relict—her one daughter Sylvia was of the present day. They were very poor, and Sylvia worked very hard.

Mrs. Cooper knew how to dress in silk or satin, decorated with lace; but to adapt herself to serge was quite beyond her capabilities. She was a woman who could only order a dinner of an era which is passing away. Clear soup, turbot, or cod-fish, with thick sauce, roast beef, a heavy pudding, plum or cabinet—no savoury—and for dessert candied fruit and oranges. Dainty dinners and economy were unknown to her. Sylvia did the housekeeping, and Mrs. Cooper wept. Her husband had been angelic, with a decided turn for unpunctuality, which is the prerogative of angels. This was a daily cross to his wife, and her husband bore her revilings with a saintly and irritating fortitude. Sylvia Cooper was pretty. She was small and pale, with browny green eyes and brown hair. She met Mr. George at Victoria Mansions; he had vainly tried to get introduced to her. He went to the editor of the Signal, the new paper which was to be the signal for every one’s opinions—lords and ladies, ballet girls, actresses and actors, all wrote for it; only managers did not write for it, and they disliked it. The notoriety the publication of opinions brought was not always agreeable.

Mr. George thought of interviewing Miss Cooper, as she sang in the chorus of the newest and most dull opera.

The editor of the Signal said if she were pretty he would have her photograph, and if she had broken any of the commandments, he would allow the interview to be published.

Mr. George said she was pretty, and as for the commandments, Miss Cooper looked as if she had never heard of them. So he started for the Fulham Road, where she lived.

First he saw Mrs. Cooper. She received him with the graciousness his clothes and boots deserved. When he explained his errand she gasped with horror.

Fortunately at this moment Sylvia entered and the tragic situation ended. Mr. George asked questions and obtained her photograph for the paper.

“I will not repeat any of the opinions you confide in me,” he said. “If I did, and you said you preferred fine days to rainy ones, you would see in all the papers that Miss Cooper owns to a fondness for fine days, but she need not imagine that Heaven will be gracious to her at the expense of the farmers.”

“Or cab drivers,” said Sylvia. “Showery weather must be their harvest time. Still no paper will notice my opinions. Why did you come to interview me? I am nobody.”

“I want to get your ideas on chorus work.”

“Yes? Well, you shall have them by and by. We need not talk of my feelings or of my preferences—but will you have some tea?”

He owned to being a friend of Launa’s and a cousin of Sir Anthony Howard’s. Mrs. Cooper forgave everything then, and found his visit of over an hour too short. As soon as he left he drove to Victoria Mansions.

Launa had just come in. She had lunched at the Herberts’. Mr. Wainbridge as usual was with her.

“You will never guess where I have been,” said Mr. George, with complacency, accepting a third cup of tea. Launa’s tea was always good; at Sylvia’s there was no cream. “I suppose,” he reflected, “there are lives without cream.”

“Tell me where you have been.”

“Interviewing Miss Cooper for the Signal, and here is her photograph.”

“Not really,” said Launa, with interest. “How naughty of you when I refused to introduce you to her, for I do not approve of you.”

“Now, Miss Launa, you are real mean, as you Yankees say.”

“I am a Canadian.”

“I know it. Haven’t I kept your secret? Did I ever tell Mr. Wainbridge how you fell violently in love with me and told me so, and how you would hold my hand? And how I did stroke yours? I was obliged to that night of the Fulton’s ball. The night you cried—you had just been dancing with Mr. Wainbridge—you said you were tired—you said—”

“It is nothing new for Miss Archer to be tired,” interrupted Mr. Wainbridge. “Did she see a ghost? She saw one, I remember, on a Sunday afternoon.”

“And you are base,” said Launa. “I will not invite you to any of my parties to meet Sylvia. You have thus betrayed my tenderest feelings and my tears. For what paper was your interview?”

“The Signal, I told you. Now, don’t roll your eyes, Launa; you are not shocked, I know. What could I do? You see you would not introduce me to her; Wainbridge said he could not; Mrs. Herbert is so much married à la mode, that I, a young and innocent young man, cannot risk my slender reputation in her company. Then I thought of the Signal. Their leave was easily procured; they have no intention of paying me, and they will publish her photograph some day. Her mother was alarmed when she heard why I had come. I trotted out my cousin, Sir Anthony, and you, Launa. We had tea, and I am going again soon; perhaps they may come with me some Sunday afternoon somewhere.”

“Indefinite,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “but convincing of your affection for her. Take care.”

“Tell me about Sylvia,” said Mr. George. “Wainbridge, you know her well. Isn’t there a story attached to her?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us,” said Launa. “Do.”

“When the Coopers were well off, only two years ago, Sylvia met Lord Fairmouth. He is in Africa, or somewhere.”

“Go on,” said Launa.

“You are quite safe, I know; but that young ruffian, will he tell?”

“Tell,” repeated Mr. George. “I long to kick you down the stairs, Mr. Wainbridge. Go on.”

“Sylvia did not know he was married, and they met every day. He loved her. His wife was a woman who—”

“Who belonged to every and any man as well as to him,” suggested Mr. George.

“Sylvia, then,” continued Mr. Wainbridge, “was very religious. She did not believe in marriage after divorce. Fairmouth could easily have got rid of his wife; but Sylvia was firm, so he left her and then went away. She probably sent him.”

“How terrible!” said Launa. “Could they not have met sometimes? Might not his love have been a comfort to her?”

“Moralists say not,” said Mr. Wainbridge.

“Such love cannot be real,” said Launa. “I used to think love was immortal.”

“It would be immortal,” said Mr. George. “Too pure for this earth.”

The two men looked at her.

“Almost thou persuadest me that such things can be,” said Mr. George.

“I have learned such a lot,” she said, “in London. Love is marriage and an end.”

“I am not going to murmur marriage to Sylvia,” said Mr. George. “I have left it out altogether in my new book, the difficulty was to dispose of my man and woman. I overcame that by saying, ‘The end is the usual one.’ To return to Sylvia. I am not afraid of a breach of promise, but nowadays marriage is labelled a ‘question,’ and the reviewers are so tired of it; they are all married. I fear I must leave you now, Miss Launa. Good-bye.”

“Be a good boy! Don’t chase the cat or—Good-bye.”

“Suppose you were situated as they were,” said Mr. Wainbridge, “would you have sent him away? Would you have been afraid?”

“Afraid?” she repeated, with a contempt for fear. “No, I would have loved him—forever and ever. Why, because a man is bound to a vile woman, need he make the woman he loves vile because he loves her, or because he is bound?”

She looked at him, flushed with excitement, and doing battle for truth, and he realised that to some women love does not mean temptation because they are usually ignorant—at first. It would be difficult to explain this to Launa.

“I know not,” he whispered.

“I often wish,” she said, half to herself, “that we knew more of what will happen after death, if we were only told—should we try more? There is such temptation to become lethargic—to drown remembrance in the waters of Lethe.”

“You have no temptation. Do you want a reward? That is the lowest type of religion.”

“I do not want crowns, and vast seas of gold have no charm for me. Do you not suppose that Sylvia often wonders whether she will meet and know the man she loves again?”

“Certainly she does, and she will see him and know him here. He won’t be able to stay away.”

“You don’t believe in a future anywhere?”

“I believe in another world,” he said, “in another life where a verdict of temporary insanity as regards the foolishness of man’s doings in this life will be given with frequency. Most of us are not responsible for what we do. You know if a man or a woman kills his or herself the jury usually call it suicide while temporarily insane. Many of us commit self-murder for this life, but, in the eyes of the higher jury, if it exist at all, we are temporarily insane.”

“Don’t say if it exist; it must, else it were never worth one’s while to give up anything.”

“Is giving up worth it? Is it?” he asked. “Why not take all one can get? it is little enough. I love you,” he added softly, and put one arm round her.

“Don’t,” she said sharply, “don’t; I cannot bear being touched.”

“You love me?”

“No, I love no one. I like you, we are friends. You like what I do. You must not spoil it by loving me.”

“What did George mean when he said you had cried one night after dancing with me?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“I did not offend you?”

“No; oh, no. It had nothing to do with you personally. Can’t we be as we were?”

“I have always loved you. I long to help and comfort you, to make you happy. Do you think that impossible?”

“Why ask inconvenient questions?”

“Is it inconvenient? My dearest, I did not mean it.”

“Because she cares for me she was afraid happiness was never coming,” he thought.

A man always attributes a woman’s refusing to tell him how much she cares to her being too shy to talk of it; never to her not caring enough. “Yet does she care?” he wondered. That he might still doubt, and not be obliged to think of settlements and the wedding ring was satisfactory, it left an element of uncertainty in their relations; he could dare to be tender, yet not too loving. Men marry because there is nothing else to do, he thought. They know all about their future wives, their affection is returned, it is satiating—there is nothing new.

Ten minutes afterwards Launa was singing Darkey songs for him, and laughing as if her quest for happiness were over—successfully.

As he bade her good-bye, she gave him her hand.

“Is that all?”

“Yes; all. Next time I shall not shake hands, between friends it is unnecessary.”

“I can wait.”

“Do,” she replied. “You could not well do anything else.”

He could not feel sure that it was time even to think a wedding ring would ever be required.