the drawing-room, and as she tidied the neglected
flowers there was on her tight-pressed lips the whole eternal mystery
of the sphinx-woman.

He arrived punctually to the moment--one second after the
tea-urn--secretly nervous but outwardly full of a relieved delight. "I
am forgiven then?" he cried, and she felt cheered already. It was
something to talk. Besides, he really _did_ look funny.... He laid on
the table some roses he had bought and now had not the courage to
present.

"I'm afraid I was a pig," she answered, nobly. One feud was quite
enough for her. "I know you never meant to do it and you were awfully
good about it all till then. You helped me such a lot."

"And I hope to do the same again," he said with an absurd little bow.

"Not give me away again?" she asked, mainly as a good excuse for
smiling. But really she felt happier already. Tea smelt almost good
again!

He looked at her with the reproachful eyes of a whipped hound. "You
know I shouldn't, you know I never meant to. And I'm afraid you'll
never trust me any more." He sighed cavernally.

"That's just what I'm going to do," she said, and then she could not
refrain from laughing, for he looked so alarmed at new responsibility.
"Oh, nothing like the other," she went on gaily, "this is a most
harmless secret."

"What is it?" he answered keenly. "Tell me?" He hoped that Brett was
teaing out somewhere.

"Well," said Helena, giving him his tea, "you know you said I ought to
follow up the other with a second book and I said no? Well, now I
think I will." She felt heroic and excited, merely saying it. It was
her new resolve.

"Hooray!" cried Geoffrey Alison, catching some of the great moment's
fire. "Blatchley _will_ be bucked. He was immensely keen."

"Bother Blatchley," answered Helena. "I think he has behaved
disgracefully and it is all his fault. But I can't stand this any
longer; Hugh won't even speak to me; besides, if I write other books
about quite different husbands, nobody can say they are all us."

"Excellent," said the other, grasping the involved idea at once, "and
so----"

Helena laughed. "So now I'm going to write one about a woman married
to an artist, and you must give me all the local colour."

"Shall _I_ be Zoe's husband?" he asked eagerly. It still pleased him
to say things like that.

"Oh no," she said, unconsciously ruthless, "no more than Hugh was the
first; but I mean you must tell me what--well