IX

Loder slept soundly and dreamlessly in Chilcote's canopied bed. To him

the big room with its severe magnificence suggested nothing of the gloom

and solitude that it held in its owner's eyes. The ponderous furniture,

the high ceiling, the heavy curtains, unchanged since the days of

Chilcote's grandfather, all hinted at a far-reaching ownership

that stirred him. The ownership was mythical in his regard, and the

possessions a mirage, but they filled the day. And, surely, sufficient

for the day--

That was his frame of mind as he opened his eyes on the following

morning, and lay appreciative of his comfort, of the surrounding space,

even of the light that filtered through the curtain chinks, suggestive

of a world recreated. With day, all things seem possible to a healthy

man. He stretched his arms luxuriously, delighting in the glossy

smoothness of the sheets.

What was it Chilcote had said? Better live for a day than exist for a

lifetime! That was true; and life had begun. At thirty-six he was to

know it for the first time.

He smiled, but without irony. Man is at his best at thirty-six, he

mused. He has retained his enthusiasms and shed his exuberances; he has

learned what to pick up and what to pass by; he no longer imagines

that to drain a cup one must taste the dregs. He closed his eyes and

stretched again, not his arms only, but his whole body. The pleasure of

his mental state insisted on a physical expression. Then, sitting up in

bed, he pressed the electric bell.

Chilcote's new valet responded.

“Pull those curtains, Renwick!” he said. “What's the time?” He had

passed the ordeal of Renwick's eyes the night before.

The man was slow, even a little stupid. He drew back the curtains

carefully, then looked at the small clock on the dressing-table. “Eight

o'clock, sir. I didn't expect the bell so early, sir.”

Loder felt reproved, and a pause followed.

“May I bring your cup of tea, sir?”

“No. Not just yet. I'll have a bath first.”

Renwick showed ponderous uncertainty. “Warm, sir?” he hazarded.

“No. Cold.”

Still perplexed, the man left the room.

Loder smiled to himself. The chances of discovery in that quarter were

not large. He was inclined to think that Chilcote had even overstepped

necessity in the matter of his valet's dullness.

He breakfasted alone, following Chilcote's habit, and after breakfast

found his way to the study.

As he entered, Greening rose with the same conciliatory haste that he

had shown the night before.

Loder nodded to him. “Early at work?” he said, pleasantly.

The little man showed instant, almost ridiculous relief. “Good-morning,

sir,” he said; “you too are early. I rather feared your nerves troubled

you after I left last night, for I found your letters still unopened

this morning. But I am glad to see you look so well.”

Loder promptly turned his back to the light. “Oh, last night's letters!”

he said. “To tell you the truth, Greening, my wife”--his hesitation was

very slight--“my wife looked me up after you left, and we gossiped. I

clean forgot the post.” He smiled in an explanatory way as he moved to

the desk and picked up the letters.

With Greening's eyes upon him, there was no time for scruples. With

very creditable coolness he began opening the envelopes one by one. The

letters were unimportant, and he passed them one after another to the

secretary, experiencing a slight thrill of authority as each left his

hand. Again the fact that power is visible in little things came to his

mind.

“Give me my engagement-book, Greening,” he said, when the letters had

been disposed of.

The book that Greening handed him was neat in shape and bound, like

Chilcote's cigarette-case, in lizard-skin.

As Loder took it, the gold monogram “J.C.” winked at him in the bright

morning light. The incident moved his sense of humor. He and the book

were cooperators in the fraud, it seemed. He felt an inclination to wink

back. Nevertheless, he opened it with proper gravity and skimmed the

pages.

The page devoted to the day was almost full. On every other line were

jottings in Chilcote's irregular hand, and twice among the entries

appeared a prominent cross in blue pencilling. Loder's interest

quickened as his eye caught the mark. It had been agreed between them

that only engagements essential to Chilcote's public life need be

carried through during his absence, and these, to save confusion, were

to be crossed in blue pencil. The rest, for the most part social claims,

were to be left to circumstance and Loder's inclination, Chilcote's

erratic memory always accounting for the breaking of trivial promises.

But Loder in his new energy was anxious for obligations; the desire for

fresh and greater tests grew with indulgence. He scanned the two

lines with eagerness. The first was an interview with Cresham, one of

Chilcote's supporters in Wark; the other an engagement to lunch with

Fraide. At the idea of the former his interest quickened, but at thought

of the latter it quailed momentarily. Had the entry been a royal command

it would have affected him infinitely less. For a space his assurance

faltered; then, by coincidence, the recollection of Eve and Eve's words

of last night came back to him, and his mind was filled with a new

sensation.

Because of Chilcote, he was despised by Chilcote's wife! There was

no denying that in all the pleasant excitement of the adventure that

knowledge had rankled. It came to him now linked with remembrance of

the slight, reluctant touch of her fingers, the faintly evasive dislike

underlying her glance. It was a trivial thing, but it touched his pride

as a man. That was how he put it to himself. It wasn't that he valued

this woman's opinion--any woman's opinion; it was merely that it touched

his pride. He turned again to the window and gazed out, the engagement

book still between his hands. What if he compelled her respect? What if

by his own personality cloaked under Chilcote's identity he forced her

to admit his capability? It was a matter of pride, after all--scarcely

even of pride; self-respect was a better word.

Satisfied by his own reasoning, he turned back into the room.

“See to those letters, Greening,” he said. “And for the rest of the

morning's work you might go on with your Khorasan notes. I believe we'll

all want every inch of knowledge we can get in that quarter before we're

much older. I'll see you again later.” With a reassuring nod he crossed

the room and passed through the door.

He lunched with Fraide at his club, and afterwards walked with him to

Westminster. The walk and lunch were both memorable. In that hour he

learned many things that had been sealed to him before. He tasted his

first draught of real elation, his first drop of real discomfiture.

He saw for the first time how a great man may condescend--how

unostentatiously, how fully, how delightfully. He felt what tact and

kindness perfectly combined may accomplish, and he burned inwardly with

a sense of duplicity that crushed and elated him alternately. He was

John Loder, friendless, penniless, with no present and no future, yet he

walked down Whitehall in the full light of day with one of the greatest

statesmen England has known.

Some strangers were being shown over the Terrace when he and Fraide

reached the House, and, noticing the open door, the old man paused.

“I never refuse fresh air,” he said. “Shall we take another breath of it

before settling down?” He took Loder's arm and drew him forward. As they

passed through the door-way the pressure of his fingers tightened. “I

shall reckon to-day among my pleasantest memories, Chilcote,” he said,

gravely. “I can't explain the feeling, but I seem to have touched Eve's

husband--the real you, more closely this morning than I ever did before.

It has been a genuine happiness.” He looked up with the eyes that,

through all his years of action and responsibility, had remained so

bright.

But Loder paled suddenly, and his glance turned to the river-wide,

mysterious, secret. Unconsciously Fraide had stripped the illusion. It

was not John Loder who walked here; it was Chilcote--Chilcote with his

position, his constituency--his wife. He half extricated his arm, but

Fraide held it.

“No,” he said. “Don't draw away from me. You have always been too ready

to do that. It is not often I have a pleasant truth to tell. I won't be

deprived of the enjoyment.”

“Can the truth ever be pleasant, sir?” Involuntarily Loder echoed

Chilcote.

Fraide looked up. He was half a head shorter than his companion, though

his dignity concealed the fact. “Chilcote,” he said, seriously, “give

up cynicism! It is the trade-mark of failure, and I do not like it in my

friends.”

Loder said nothing. The quiet insight of the reproof, its mitigating

kindness, touched him sharply. In that moment he saw the rails down

which he had sent his little car of existence spinning, and the sight

daunted him. The track was steeper, the gauge narrower, than he had

guessed; there were curves and sidings upon which he had not reckoned.

He turned his head and met Fraide's glance.

“Don't count too much on me, sir,” he said, slowly. “I might disappoint

you again.” His voice broke off on the last word, for the sound of other

voices and of laughter came to them across the Terrace as a group of

two women and three men passed through the open door. At a glance he

realized that the slighter of the two women was Eve.

Seeing them, she disengaged herself from her party and came quickly

forward. He saw her cheeks flush and her eyes brighten pleasantly as

they rested on his companion; but he noticed also that after her first

cursory glance she avoided his own direction.

As she came towards them, Fraide drew away his hand in readiness to

greet her.

“Here comes my godchild!” he said. “I often wish, Chilcote, that I could

do away with the prefix.” He added the last words in an undertone as he

reached them; then he responded warmly to her smile.

“What!” he said. “Turning the Terrace into the Garden of Eden in

January! We cannot allow this.”

Eve laughed. “Blame Lady Sarah!” she said. “We met at lunch, and she

carried me off. Needless to say I hadn't to ask where.”

They both laughed, and Loder joined, a little uncertainly. He had yet to

learn that the devotion of Fraide and his wife was a long-standing jest

in their particular set.

At the sound of his tardy laugh Eve turned to him. “I hope I didn't rob

you of all sleep last night,” she said. “I caught him in his den,”

she explained, turning to Fraide, “and invaded it most courageously. I

believe we talked till two.”

Again Loder noticed bow quickly she looked from him to Fraide. The

knowledge roused his self-assertion.

“I had an excellent night,” he said. “Do I look as if I hadn't slept?”

Somewhat slowly and reluctantly Eve looked back. “No,” she said,

truthfully, and with a faint surprise that to Loder seemed the first

genuine emotion she had shown regarding him. “No, I don't think I ever

saw you look so well.” She was quite unconscious and very charming as

she made the admission. It struck Loder that her coloring of hair and

eyes gained by daylight--were brightened and vivified by their setting

of sombre river and sombre stone.

Fraide smiled at her affectionately; then looked at Loder. “Chilcote

has got anew lease of nerves, Eve,” he said, quietly. “And I--believe--I

have got a new henchman. But I see my wife beckoning to me. I must have

a word with her before she flits away. May I be excused?” He made a

courteous gesture of apology; then smiled at Eve.

She looked after him as he moved away. “I sometimes wonder what I

should do if anything were to happen to the Fraides,” she said, a

little wistfully. Then almost at once she laughed, as if regretting her

impulsiveness. “You heard what he said,” she went on, in a different

voice. “Am I really to congratulate you?”

The change of tone stung Loder unaccountably. “Will you always

disbelieve in me?” he asked.

Without answering, she walked slowly across the deserted Terrace and,

pausing by the parapet, laid her hand on the stonework. Still in silence

she looked out across the river.

Loder had followed closely. Again her aloofness seemed a challenge.

“Will you always disbelieve in me?” he repeated.

At last she looked up at him, slowly.

“Have you ever given me cause to believe!” she asked, in a quiet voice.

To this truth he found no answer, though the subdued incredulity nettled

him afresh.

Prompted to a further effort, he spoke again. “Patience is necessary

with every person and every circumstance,” he said. “We've all got to

wait and see.”

She did not lower her gaze as he spoke; and there seemed to him

something disconcerting in the clear, candid blue of her eyes. With

a sudden dread of her next words, he moved forward and laid his hand

beside hers on the parapet.

“Patience is needed for every one,” he repeated, quickly. “Sometimes a

man is like a bit of wreckage; he drifts till some force stronger than

himself gets in his way and stops him.” He looked again at her face. He

scarcely knew what he was saying; he only felt that he was a man in an

egregiously false position, trying stupidly to justify himself. “Don't

you believe that flotsam can sometimes be washed ashore?” he asked.

High above them Big Ben chimed the hour.

Eve raised her head. It almost seemed to him that he could see her

answer trembling on her lips; then the voice of Lady Sarah Fraide came

cheerfully from behind them.

“Eve!” she called. “Eve! We must fly. It's absolutely three o'clock!”

X

In the days that followed Fraide's marked adoption of him Loder behaved

with a discretion that spoke well for his qualities. Many a man placed

in the same responsible, and yet strangely irresponsible, position might

have been excused if, for the time at least, he gave himself a loose

rein. But Loder kept free of the temptation.

Like all other experiments, his showed unlooked-for features when put

to a working test. Its expected difficulties smoothed themselves away,

while others, scarcely anticipated, came into prominence. Most notable

of all, the physical likeness between himself and Chilcote, the bedrock

of the whole scheme, which had been counted upon to offer most danger,

worked without a hitch. He stood literally amazed before the sweeping

credulity that met him on every hand. Men who had known Chilcote from

his youth, servants who had been in his employment for years, joined

issue in the unquestioning acceptance. At times the ease of the

deception bewildered him; there were moments when he realized that,

should circumstances force him to a declaration of the truth, he would

not be believed. Human nature prefers its own eyesight to the testimony

of any man.

But in face of this astonishing success he steered a steady course. In

the first exhilaration of Fraide's favor, in the first egotistical wish

to break down Eve's scepticism, he might possibly have plunged into the

vortex of action, let it be in what direction it might; but fortunately

for himself, for Chilcote, and for their scheme, he was liable to

strenuous second thoughts--those wise and necessary curbs that go

further to the steadying of the universe than the universe guesses.

Sitting in the quiet of the House, on the same day that he had spoken

with Eve on the Terrace, he had weighed possibilities slowly and

cautiously. Impressed to the full by the atmosphere of the place that

in his eyes could never lack character, however dull its momentary

business, however prosy the voice that filled it, he had sifted impulse

from expedience, as only a man who has lived within himself can sift and

distinguish. And at the close of that first day his programme bad been

formed. There must be no rush, no headlong plunge, he had decided;

things must work round. It was his first expedition into the new

country, and it lay with fate to say whether it would be his last.

He had been leaning back in his seat, his eyes on the ministers

opposite, his arms folded in imitation of Chilcote's most natural

attitude, when this final speculation had come to him; and as it came

his lips had tightened for a moment and his face become hard and cold.

It is an unpleasant thing when a man first unconsciously reckons on the

weakness of another, and the look that expresses the idea is not good

to see. He had stirred uneasily; then his lips had closed again. He was

tenacious by nature, and by nature intolerant of weakness. At the first

suggestion of reckoning upon Chilcote's lapses, his mind had drawn back

in disgust; but as the thought came again the disgust had lessened.

In a week--two weeks, perhaps--Chilcote would reclaim his place. Then

would begin the routine of the affair. Chilcote, fresh from indulgence

and freedom, would find his obligations a thousand times more irksome

than before; he would struggle for a time; then--

A shadowy smile had touched Loder's lips as the idea formed itself.

Then would come the inevitable recall; then in earnest he might venture

to put his hand to the plough. He never indulged in day-dreams, but

something in the nature of a vision had flashed over his mind in that

instant. He had seen himself standing in that same building, seen the

rows of faces first bored, then hesitatingly transformed under his

personal domination, under the one great power he knew himself to

possess--the power of eloquence. The strength of the suggestion had been

almost painful. Men who have attained self-repression are occasionally

open to a perilous onrush of feeling. Believing that they know

themselves, they walk boldly forward towards the high-road and the

pitfall alike.

These had been Loder's disconnected ideas and speculations on the first

day of his new life. At four o'clock on the ninth day he was pacing with

quiet confidence up and down Chilcote's study, his mind pleasantly

busy and his cigar comfortably alight, when he paused in, his walk and

frowned, interrupted by the entrance of a servant.

The man came softly into the room, drew a small table towards the fire,

and proceeded to lay an extremely fine and unserviceable-looking cloth.

Loder watched him in silence. He had grown to find silence a very useful

commodity. To wait and let things develop was the attitude he oftenest

assumed. But on this occasion he was perplexed. He had not rung for

tea, and in any case a cup on a salver satisfied his wants. He looked

critically at the fragile cloth.

Presently the servant departed, and solemnly reentered carrying a

silver tray, with cups, a teapot, and cakes. Having adjusted them to his

satisfaction, he turned to Loder.

“Mrs. Chilcote will be with you in five minutes, sir,” he said.

He waited for some response, but Loder gave none. Again he had found

the advantages of silence, but this time it was silence of a compulsory

kind. He had nothing to say.

The man, finding him irresponsive, retired; and, left to himself, Loder

stared at the array of feminine trifles; then, turning abruptly, he

moved to the centre of the room.

Since the day they had talked on the Terrace, he had only seen Eve

thrice, and always in the presence e others. Since the night of his

first coming, she has not invaded his domain, and he wondered what this

new departure might mean.

His thought of her had been less vivid in the last few days; for, though

still using steady discretion, he had been drawn gradually nearer the

fascinating whirlpool of new interests and new work. Shut his eyes as

he might, there was no denying that this moment, so personally vital to

him, was politically vital to the whole country; and that by a curious

coincidence Chilcote's position well-nigh forced him to take an active

interest in the situation. Again and again the suggestion had arisen

that--should the smouldering fire in Persia break into a flame,

Chilcote's commercial interests would facilitate, would practically

compel, his standing in in the campaign against the government.

The little incident of the tea-table, recalling the social side of his

obligations, had aroused the realization of greater things. As he stood

meditatively in the middle of the room he saw suddenly how absorbed

he had become in these greater things. How, in the swing of congenial

interests, he had been borne insensibly forward--his capacities

expanding, his intelligence asserting itself. He had so undeniably found

his sphere that the idea of usurpation had receded gently as by natural

laws, until his own personality had begun to color the day's work.

As this knowledge came, he wondered quickly if it held a solution of

the present little comedy; if Eve had seen what others, he knew, had

observed--that Chilcote was showing a grasp of things that he had not

exhibited for years. Then, as a sound of skirts came softly down the

corridor, he squared his shoulders with his habitual abrupt gesture and

threw his cigar into the fire.

Eve entered the room much as she had done on her former visit, but with

one difference. In passing Loder she quietly held out her hand.

He took it as quietly. “Why am I so honored?” he said.

She laughed a little and looked across at the fire. “How like a man! You

always want to begin with reasons. Let's have tea first and explanations

after.” She moved forward towards the table, and he followed. As he did

so, it struck him that her dress seemed in peculiar harmony with the day

and the room, though beyond that he could not follow its details. As she

paused beside the table he drew forward a chair with a faint touch of

awkwardness.

She thanked him and sat down.

He watched her in silence as she poured out the tea, and the thought

crossed his mind that it was incredibly long since he had seen a woman

preside over a meal. The deftness of her fingers filled him with an

unfamiliar, half-inquisitive wonder. So interesting was the sensation

that, when she held his cup towards him, he didn't immediately see it.

“Don't you want any?” She smiled a little.

He started, embarrassed by his own tardiness. “I'm afraid I'm dull,” he

said. “I've been so--”

“So keen a worker in the last week?”

For a moment he felt relieved. Then, as a fresh silence fell, his sense

of awkwardness returned. He sipped his tea and ate a biscuit. He found

himself wishing, for almost the first time, for some of the small

society talk that came so pleasantly to other men. He felt that the

position was ridiculous. He glanced at Eve's averted head, and laid his

empty cup upon the table.

Almost at once she turned, and their eyes met.

“John,” she said, “do you guess at all why I wanted to have tea with

you?”

He looked down at her. “No,” he said, honestly and without

embellishment.

The curtness of the answer might have displeased another woman. Eve

seemed to take no offence.

“I had a talk with the Fraides to-day,” she said “A long talk. Mr.

Fraide said great things of you--things I wouldn't have believed from

anybody but Mr. Fraide.” She altered her position and looked from

Loder's face back into the fire.

He took a step forward. “What things?” he said. He was almost ashamed of

the sudden, inordinate satisfaction that welled up at her words.

“Oh, I mustn't tell you!” She laughed a little. “But you have surprised

him.” She paused, sipped her tea, then looked up again with a change of

expression.

“John,” she said, more seriously, “there is one point that sticks

a little. Will this great change last?” Her voice was direct and

even--wonderfully direct for a woman, Loder thought. It came to him with

a certain force that beneath her remarkable charm might possibly lie a

remarkable character. It was not a possibility that had occurred to him

before, and it caused him to look at her a second time. In the new

light he saw her beauty differently, and it interested him differently.

Heretofore he had been inclined to class women under three heads--idols,

amusements, or encumbrances; now it crossed his mind that a woman might

possibly fill another place--the place of a companion.

“You are very sceptical,” he said, still looking down at her.

She did not return his glance. “I think I have been made sceptical,” she

said.

As she spoke the image of Chilcote shot through his mind. Chilcote,

irritable, vicious, unstable, and a quick compassion for this woman so

inevitably shackled to him followed it.

Eve, unconscious of what was passing in his mind, went on with her

subject.

“When we were married,” she said, gently, “I had such a great interest

in things, such a great belief in life. I had lived in politics, and I

was marrying one of the coming men--everybody said you were one of the

coming men--I scarcely felt there was anything left to ask for. You

didn't make very ardent love,” she smiled, “but I think I had forgotten

about love. I wanted nothing so much as to be like Lady Sarah--married

to a great man.” She paused, then went on more hurriedly: “For a while

things went right; then slowly things, went wrong. You got your--your

nerves.”

Loder changed his position with something of abruptness.

She misconstrued the action.

“Please don't think I want to be disagreeable,” she said, hastily. “I

don't. I'm only trying to make you understand why--why I lost heart.”

“I think I know,” Loder's voice broke in involuntarily. “Things got

worse--then still worse. You found interference useless. At last you

ceased to have a husband.”

“Until a week ago.” She glanced up quickly. Absorbed in her own

feelings, she had seen nothing extraordinary in his words.

But at hers, Loder changed color.

“It's the most incredible thing in the world,” she said. “It's quite

incredible, and yet I can't deny it. Against all my reason, all my

experience, all my inclination I seem to feel in the last week something

of what I felt at first.” She stopped with an embarrassed laugh. “It

seems that, as if by magic, life has been picked up where I dropped it

six years ago.” Again she stopped and laughed.

Loder was keenly uncomfortable, but he could think of nothing to say.

“It seemed to begin that night I dined with the Fraides,” she went

on. “Mr. Fraide talked so wisely and so kindly about many things. He

recalled all we had hoped for in you; and--and he blamed me a little.”

She paused and laid her cup aside. “He said that when people have made

what they call their last effort, they should always make just one

effort more. He promised that if I could once persuade you to take an

interest in your work, he would do the rest. He said all that, and a

thousand other kinder things--and I sat and listened. But all the time I

thought of nothing but their uselessness. Before I left I promised to

do my best--but my thought was still the same. It was stronger than ever

when I forced myself to come up here--” She paused again, and glanced at

Loder's averted head. “But I came, and then--as if by conquering myself

I had compelled a reward, you seemed--you somehow seemed different. It

sounds ridiculous, I know.” Her voice was half amused, half deprecating.

“It wasn't a difference in your face, though I knew directly that you

were free from--nerves.” Again she hesitated over the word. “It was a

difference in yourself, in the things you said, more than in the way you

said them.” Once more she paused and laughed a little.

Loder's discomfort grew.

“But it didn't affect me then.” She spoke more slowly. “I wouldn't admit

it then. And the next day when we talked on the Terrace I still refused

to admit it--though I felt it more strongly than before. But I have

watched you since that day, and I know there is a change. Mr. Fraide

feels the same, and he is never mistaken. I know it's only nine or ten

days, but I've hardly seen you in the same mood for nine or ten hours in

the last three years.” She stopped, and the silence was expressive. It

seemed to plead for confirmation of her instinct.

Still Loder could find no response.

After waiting for a moment, she leaned forward in her chair and looked

up at him.

“John,” she said, “is it going to last? That's what I came to ask.

I don't want to believe till I'm sure; I don't want to risk a new

disappointment.” Loder felt the earnestness of her gaze, though he

avoided meeting it.

“I couldn't have said this to you a week ago, but to-day I can. I don't

pretend to explain why--the feeling is too inexplicable. I only

know that I can say it now, and that I couldn't a week ago. Will you

understand--and answer?”

Still Loder remained mute. His position was horribly incongruous. What

could he say? What dared he say?

Confused by his silence, Eve rose.

“If it's only a phase, don't try to hide it,” she said. “But if it's

going to last--if by any possibility it's going to last--” She hesitated

and looked up.

She was quite close to him. He would have been less than man had he been

unconscious of the subtle contact of her glance, the nearness of her

presence--and no one had ever hinted that manhood was lacking in him. It

was a moment of temptation. His own energy, his own intentions, seemed

so near; Chilcote and Chilcote's claims so distant and unreal. After

all, his life, his ambitions, his determinations, were his own. He

lifted his eyes and looked at her.

“You want me to tell you that I will go on?” he said.

Her eyes brightened; she took a step forward. “Yes,” she said, “I want

it more than anything in the world.”

There was a wait. The declaration that would satisfy her came to Loder's

lips, but he delayed it. The delay, was fateful. While he stood silent

the door opened and the servant who had brought in the tea reappeared.

He crossed the room and handed Loder a telegram. “Any answer, sir?” he

said.

Eve moved back to her chair. There was a flush on her cheeks and her

eyes were still alertly bright.

Loder tore the telegram open, read it, then threw it Into the fire.

“No answer!” he said, laconically.

At the brusqueness of his voice, Eve looked up. “Disagreeable news?” she

said, as the servant departed.

He didn't look at her. He was watching the telegram withering in the

centre of the fire.

“No,” he said at last, in a strained voice. “No. Only news that I--that

I had forgotten to expect.”