wards as
deftly as they had drawn them in, and she could not be with him long. It
had been arranged that they should motor to Shrewsbury, whence he would
go north, and she back to London with the Warringtons. For a fraction of
time she was happy. Then her brain recommenced.

"I am afraid there has been gossiping of some kind at the George. Helen
would not have left unless she had heard something. I mismanaged that.
It is wretched. I ought to have parted her from that woman at once."

"Margaret!" he exclaimed, loosing her arm impressively.

"Yes--yes, Henry?"

"I am far from a saint--in fact, the reverse--but you have taken me, for
better or worse. Bygones must be bygones. You have promised to forgive
me. Margaret, a promise is a promise. Never mention that woman again."

"Except for some practical reason--never."

"Practical! You practical!"

"Yes, I'm practical," she murmured, stooping over the mowing-machine and
playing with the grass which trickled through her fingers like sand.

He had silenced her, but her fears made him uneasy. Not for the first
time, he was threatened with blackmail. He was rich and supposed to be
moral; the Basts knew that he was not, and might find it profitable to
hint as much.

"At all events, you mustn't worry," he said. "This is a man's business."
He thought intently. "On no account mention it to anybody."

Margaret flushed at advice so elementary, but he was really paving the
way for a lie. If necessary he would deny that he had ever known Mrs.
Bast, and prosecute her for libel. Perhaps he never had known her. Here
was Margaret, who behaved as if he had not. There the house. Round them
were half a dozen gardeners, clearing up after his daughter's wedding.
All was so solid and spruce, that the past flew up out of sight like a
spring-blind, leaving only the last five minutes unrolled.

Glancing at these, he saw that the car would be round during the
next five, and plunged into action. Gongs were tapped, orders issued,
Margaret was sent to dress, and the housemaid to sweep up the long
trickle of grass that she had left across the hall. As is Man to the
Universe, so was the mind of Mr. Wilcox to the minds of some men--a
concentrated light upon a tiny spot, a little Ten Minutes moving
self-contained through its appointed years. No Pagan he, who lives for
the Now, and may be wiser than all philosophers. He lived for the five
minutes that have past, and the five to come; he had the bu