o make up a four. I thought it abominably
selfish of you."

"No, I can't--well, never mind the tennis. Why couldn't you--couldn't
you have warned me if you felt anything wrong? You talked of our wedding
at lunch--at least, you let me talk."

"I knew you wouldn't understand," said Lucy quite crossly. "I might have
known there would have been these dreadful explanations. Of course,
it isn't the tennis--that was only the last straw to all I have been
feeling for weeks. Surely it was better not to speak until I felt
certain." She developed this position. "Often before I have wondered if
I was fitted for your wife--for instance, in London; and are you fitted
to be my husband? I don't think so. You don't like Freddy, nor my
mother. There was always a lot against our engagement, Cecil, but all
our relations seemed pleased, and we met so often, and it was no good
mentioning it until--well, until all things came to a point. They have
to-day. I see clearly. I must speak. That's all."

"I cannot think you were right," said Cecil gently. "I cannot tell
why, but though all that you say sounds true, I feel that you are not
treating me fairly. It's all too horrible."

"What's the good of a scene?"

"No good. But surely I have a right to hear a little more."

He put down his glass and opened the window. From where she knelt,
jangling her keys, she could see a slit of darkness, and, peering into
it, as if it would tell him that "little more," his long, thoughtful
face.

"Don't open the window; and you'd better draw the curtain, too; Freddy
or any one might be outside." He obeyed. "I really think we had better
go to bed, if you don't mind. I shall only say things that will make me
unhappy afterwards. As you say it is all too horrible, and it is no good
talking."

But to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her, she seemed each moment
more desirable. He looked at her, instead of through her, for the first
time since they were engaged. From a Leonardo she had become a living
woman, with mysteries and forces of her own, with qualities that even
eluded art. His brain recovered from the shock, and, in a burst of
genuine devotion, he cried: "But I love you, and I did think you loved
me!"

"I did not," she said. "I thought I did at first. I am sorry, and ought
to have refused you this last time, too."

He began to walk up and down the room, and she grew more and more vexed
at his dignified behaviour. She had counted on his being pe