ashed away at lightning speed over their travels
together, their adventures. Somerled's wife would not write novels. And
deep in his heart Basil knew that Aline's soul was not in the books, as
his was. He would not acknowledge this difference between them, but he
knew it was there. In old days, when Aline had written alone, she had
always chosen some subject that loomed large in public interest at the
moment, whether she herself cared about it or not, hoping to "come in on
the wave." Just because she had not really cared her scheme of work had
not given her success. So it had been with the idea of their first book
written together. Aline had wanted to plan out something to do with
motoring, about which every one was keen just then. She had proposed to
combine business with a cure for her brother; and when she had failed to
think of a "good plot on the right lines," he had made a suggestion
which flashed into his head. The joy of motoring, the wonder of travel,
both new to Basil, had intoxicated him. He wrote as one inspired, for
the sheer love of writing and telling what he had seen and felt. And the
world, catching the thrill of his joy, had shared it.

He did not say this to himself now, did not realize the truth of it, and
did not even believe that he could go on writing stories and succeeding
without Aline. Only, he knew that he loved his work for itself, and she
did not. That the light of his life would be gone without it, whereas
she would be glad to stop working and be idle as the admired wife of a
celebrity and a millionaire. In this he felt a vague injustice of fate
which depressed him--a rare state of mind for Basil Norman, to whom for
four years the world had been a happy and magically beautiful
dwelling-place.

"I hear a car now!" he exclaimed.

"It's his!" she answered. "I heard the siren when his chauffeur sounded
it going out of the garage. It's different from any others that pass
along this road. Good-bye for a little while, dear. You're so kind to
me! Wish me luck."

"I wish Somerled luck," he said, trying to laugh, as he turned and
marched quickly off toward the house.

Aline quite understood. He meant that Somerled would be lucky to get
her. That was nice of him, and like him, too, for Basil was as gallant
and chivalrous to his sister as a lover. Yet--she was sorry that he
hadn't wished her luck in so many words.

She walked toward the gate. The car had stopped.

V

Mrs. Keeling's pl