ight, and the thud of the closing
door sounded through the little house, Celia laid her bright head on the
table, and her tears fell fast on the scattered papers.

In aristocratic circles engagements are of short duration. Malham was
thankful of the fact, and acceded eagerly to a proposed date less than
six weeks ahead. A furnished flat was secured in which he and Lady Anne
could set up housekeeping, leaving the choice of a permanent residence
to be made at leisure. He welcomed that decision as a relief from a
painful ordeal. It had been a favourite amusement of Celia's to go
house-hunting on holiday afternoons, and under her guidance it had
proved a beguiling occupation. When luck was in the ascendant she would
put on her best hat, obtain orders to view mansions in West End squares,
and give herself airs to the caretaker on the subject of ball-room
accommodation. When luck waned she would escort him to garden suburbs,
and gush over a sitting-room four yards by five. And the furniture for
mansion and villa alike had been chosen a hundred times over from a
point of vantage outside shop windows. It would have been molten
torture to go house-hunting and furnishing with Lady Anne!

In a quiet unobtrusive fashion Lady Anne was exacting. She expected
daily visits, which were periods of acute misery to her fiance. Her
uncouth efforts to worm herself into his confidence shamed and
exasperated; he was disagreeably conscious of disappointing her
expectations, yet more and more did it become impossible to act the
lover's part. Conversation would lag between them and finally come to
an end, then Anne's small eyes would redden as from unshed tears, she
would lay her chill hands on his, and ask wistfully:

"Is anything the matter, John? Have I offended you in any way?"

"How could you offend me, Anne? You are everything that is good and
generous. I am most grateful for all you have done."

"But you must love me, too. I want you to love me. You _do_ love me,
John?"

Once or twice at such questioning, a flood of anger and loathing, almost
maniacal in its fury, rushed through Malham's veins, urging him on until
it was all he could do to refrain from bursting into cruel laughter,
into bitter, gibing words. Love _her_! That pitiful, sexless thing--he
who had known Celia, and held her in his arms. Was Anne blind that she
could not see what manner of woman she was? Had she no sense that she
could not realise the na