xcuses, each one
of which seemed to demand an instant adjournment to the garden. She
made the announcement in a high, clear drawl and sailed out of the room
without leaving time for protest. Whereupon Robert Carr attacked the
work on hand with feverish zeal, worked like a nigger for five or ten
minutes by the clock, and finally bolted out of the door, without, in
his case, going through the form of an excuse. Then the two workers who
were left looked out of the window and beheld the truants seated at
extreme ends of a garden seat, hardly speaking to each other, looking on
the most stiff and formal of terms.

Stanor laughed at the sight, but Pixie's practical mind could not
reconcile itself to such contradictory behaviour.

"Where's the sense of it?" she asked. "Where's the fun? To play truant
to sit on a bench and sulk! Wouldn't it be far more fun, now, to work
up here with nice cheerful people like yourself and--me?"

But Stanor knew better.

"Not a bit of it," he returned. "They'd rather quarrel by themselves
all day long than be happy with outsiders, even such fascinating people
as ourselves. It's a symptom of the disease. Of course, you have
grasped the fact that they _are_ suffering from a disease?"

"I have. I can use my eyes. But _why_?" cried Pixie, rounding on him
with sudden energy, "_why_, will you tell me, can't they be happy and
comfortable and get engaged and be done with it? What's the sense of
pretending one thing when you mean another, and sulking and quarrelling
when you might--"

"Quite so," assented Stanor, laughing. "Odd, isn't it; but they _will_,
you know. Never any knowing what they _will_ do when it takes them like
that. Besides, in this case there are complications. Miss Ward has
pots of money, and poor old Carr has nothing but what he makes. He'll
get on all right--a fellow with that chin is bound to get on--but it
takes time, and meantime it's a bit of an impasse. A fellow doesn't
mind his wife having _some_ money--it's a good thing for her as well as
for himself--but when it comes to a pile like that--well, if he has any
self-respect, he simply can't do it!"

"If _I_ had a pile, I'd expect my lover to accept it from me as gladly
as I'd take it from him. If he didn't, I should feel he didn't love me
enough."

"You'd be wrong there. He might love you enough to wish to save you
from a jolly uncomfortable position. It's not right that a man should
be dependent upon