ight of her
writing filled him with a kind of agony--something beyond his control,
beyond his comprehension. What did it mean--this tightening of the
heart, this touch of fear, and love, and fear again, so deep that the
whole web of life trembled and its strings grew confused one with
another, and all was anguish, darkness, self-renunciation, and a wild, a
dreadful mystery of human influence? At last he opened the letter.

"MY DEAREST," it began, "I can never say all that I wish to say,
because when I am with you I forget everything and watch your face.
When I am away from you I forget your face, and I long to see it
again in order that I may remember it more perfectly! It is so hard
not to think of you too often. But I have had a great deal of
sorrow, and everything I have in the world--except you--is a grief.
I know that we are not born to be happy, and so, I wonder, have we
stolen our happiness? If it is a gift--I know not what to do with
it. I cannot speak a happy language: the atmosphere is strange and
frightens me. Dear Robert, I am terrified, uncertain, but when we
meet to-morrow you will give me courage. And then, as we shall not
part again, I need never again be, as I am now, too anxious. Your
BRIGIT."

Reckage's voice broke in again.

"I do wish you would try this rum omelette. It is capital."

Orange laughed, but left the room. Rennes remarked that he had a
powerful face.

"Yes. He has a strong character. And he would never deceive another. But
he deceives himself hourly--daily."

"In what way?" asked Rennes.

"He doesn't know," said Reckage, "what a devilish fine chap he is! I
wish to God that I could prevent this marriage."

"Why?"

"I say nothing against Mrs. Parflete. She's a high-class woman and so
on. Awfully beautiful, too. As clever as they make 'em, and not a breath
against her. All the same, I am not very sweet on love matches for men
of Orange's calibre. They never answer--never."

"I don't agree with you there," replied the artist, "because I believe
that a love match--even when it dissolves, as it may, into a mistake--is
the best thing that can happen to any man."

After this they discussed bindings. Lord Reckage was the first amateur
authority on the subject.

CHAPTER VI

At five the next morning Robert was writing letters. Then, as soon as
the gates of Hyde Park were open, he walked out. The recurrence of