beauty of her stepdaughter
stood in the way of this desirable consummation. And Soames, in his
stealthy tenacity, laid his plans.

He left Bournemouth without having given himself away, but in a month's
time came back, and this time he spoke, not to the girl, but to her
stepmother. He had made up his mind, he said; he would wait any time.
And he had long to wait, watching Irene bloom, the lines of her young
figure softening, the stronger blood deepening the gleam of her eyes, and
warming her face to a creamy glow; and at each visit he proposed to her,
and when that visit was at an end, took her refusal away with him, back
to London, sore at heart, but steadfast and silent as the grave. He
tried to come at the secret springs of her resistance; only once had he a
gleam of light. It was at one of those assembly dances, which afford the
only outlet to the passions of the population of seaside watering-places.
He was sitting with her in an embrasure, his senses tingling with the
contact of the waltz. She had looked at him over her, slowly waving fan;
and he had lost his head. Seizing that moving wrist, he pressed his lips
to the flesh of her arm. And she had shuddered--to this day he had not
forgotten that shudder--nor the look so passionately averse she had given
him.

A year after that she had yielded. What had made her yield he could
never make out; and from Mrs. Heron, a woman of some diplomatic talent,
he learnt nothing. Once after they were married he asked her, "What made
you refuse me so often?" She had answered by a strange silence. An
enigma to him from the day that he first saw her, she was an enigma to
him still....

Bosinney was waiting for him at the door; and on his rugged,
good-looking, face was a queer, yearning, yet happy look, as though he
too saw a promise of bliss in the spring sky, sniffed a coming happiness
in the spring air. Soames looked at him waiting there. What was the
matter with the fellow that he looked so happy? What was he waiting for
with that smile on his lips and in his eyes? Soames could not see that
for which Bosinney was waiting as he stood there drinking in the
flower-scented wind. And once more he felt baffled in the presence of
this man whom by habit he despised. He hastened on to the house.

"The only colour for those tiles," he heard Bosinney say,--"is ruby with
a grey tint in the stuff, to give a transparent effect. I should like
Irene's opinion. I'm ordering t