e you pain. I expected--I imagined--I thought you also were in love
with Jean."

His face sobered swiftly.

"And so did I; but it was only imagination. It gave me no pain to hear
this news, and if it had, I should deserve no pity. I've known her for
years; I had my chance, but I never took it; was never even sure that I
_wanted_ to take it; was contented to drift. Gloucester carried the
camp in fourteen days." The old shadow of discontent was clouding his
face once more; he was seeing in imagination Robert's face as he looked
at Jean, and telling himself drearily: "Love is a gift, as much as other
great powers. It is not in every nature to rise to a wonderful,
transforming passion. He can, that man. One can read it in his face.
He has not frittered away his gift; it was all there, unused, unsullied,
waiting for Jean, until she should appear. He has a genius for loving,
and like all geniuses he makes his power felt. Jean felt it. It is
that that has drawn her to him. To gain Jean in a fortnight, while I,
poor weakling, wavered for years, asking myself if I loved her! _Love_!
I don't understand the meaning of the word. I never shall. It's the
same there as in everything else: I only half-way--never to the end..."

Vanna was doubly relieved to be assured of Piers's well-being when the
family returned to town, and she saw Edith Morton's suffering behind her
gallant assumption of content. Can anything be more pitiful than the
position of a woman who loves, and finds herself passed over in favour
of a chosen friend? She cannot escape to distant scenes, as a man may
do in a similar strait; her pride forbids her to withdraw from
accustomed pursuits; day by day, night by night, she must smile while
her heart is torn, while her eyes smart with the tears she dare not
shed, while her soul cries out for the sympathy she may not ask.

Vanna's heart ached for Edith during those weeks, when every
conversation turned upon preparations for the forthcoming wedding, and
the lovers were blissfully engaged in the finding and furnishing of
their home; but Jean herself exhibited a curious _volte-face_.

"We were quite mistaken about Edith," she informed Vanna casually one
day. "Robert and she have been like brother and sister all their lives;
there was never any question of sentiment on either side. I can't think
why we imagined anything so foolish."

Vanna did not reply. She divined, what was indeed the truth, that
J