;
there was something lacking.... But I've got it now. I think I got it
when you cut me out as author!"

"Don't, please," she cried, "you mustn't talk like that."

"I must," he answered gloomily. "I've given half my life to
writing--and only just found out that I can't write!"

She came to him then. "Look here, dear," she said, taking his arm in
quite a mother's way, "you're just beginning your success. Men never
_do_ succeed till forty. You've just found yourself. You're going to
do splendid things and you will let me help."

"What? You and I collaborate?" Was there a tinge of the old-time
suspicion?

"No," she said quickly. "I shan't ever write again; that's done with;
we'll just talk the stories over when we're out upon our dear old
rambles, and then, you see, you'll get the woman's view as well. And
possibly I may get plots sometimes, although I couldn't write them."

"Then we'll sign Helena and Hubert Brett," he said in swift penitence,
forcing himself to nobility. "That really does sound excellent!"

"No," she replied slowly, "you must always sign. You see your name is
known. Helena Brett has never written anything, and Zoe Baskerville is
dead--thank goodness!" She forced herself to smile. She must remain
the amateur! That touch of pity, she knew, must be there if things
were ever to be right again....

Perhaps he guessed a little, for suddenly he clasped her in his arms
again. "My God, Helena," he cried passionately, "how insignificant and
mean you make me feel! You women can forgive, and we're so obstinate.
You've spared me such a lot, I know. If you had told me all I know you
could, I never should have cared for you again! It's pretty damnable,
that, isn't it? But swine like me go on repenting and repenting, and
then we're twice as bad again. We're cursed, I think; we----"

She put her hand over his mouth. "It's over now," she said: "time up,"
and laughed, herself again.

He looked at her as at some miracle beyond his understanding. "And you
won't ever long to--well, to be Zoe again?"

She looked him full in the face, and her eyes smiled happiness. "No,"
she said, "_I_'ve found myself out as well. I'm nothing but a woman
after all!"

"The dearest woman in the whole world," he replied and kissed her.

Ruth knocked at the door.

THE END

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.

_BOOKS BY DESMOND COKE_

NOVELS

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