to his private plans.

What would Cleopatra Delarayne do? Charitably, almost chivalrously, he
imagined, he gave her a thought. Had he led her to hope? Undoubtedly he
had. But then he had not resolved never to marry; he had merely
determined to postpone the step _sine die_. Perhaps in a year or two he
would come to a definite understanding with Cleopatra. After all, she
was only twenty-five. She was an attractive girl, and she would be
wealthy. He felt that marriage with her would not be an uninviting
conclusion to another year or two of his present delightful existence.
Thus he satisfied his conscience and gratified his deepest wishes into
the bargain.

He dined alone at the Cafe Royal. It was a sultry evening, and London
was still stifling after a sweltering day. One had the feeling that the
roofs and masonry of the buildings all about were still burning, as
probably they were, with the heat of the sun that had been pouring down
upon them all day; and the big city seemed to breathe its hot dust into
the face of its inhabitants.

Having nothing better to do, he thought how pleasant it would be to
finish the day in Mrs. Delarayne's cool garden in Kensington, and
thither he betook himself after his meal, devoutly hoping that they
would be at home.

Cleopatra had evidently been half expecting him, for she appeared in the
drawing-room on the heels of the maid who had ushered him in, and gave
him a friendly welcome. Mrs. Delarayne had ensconced herself upstairs
and did not wish to be disturbed, and at that moment her penetrating
voice could be heard conducting what appeared to be a most lively and
acrimonious debate with someone unknown across the telephone. So on
Denis's suggestion they went into the garden and installed themselves
there in Cleopatra's favourite bower.

"Rather late for the Warrior to be upbraiding a tradesman," Denis
observed. "I wonder what she can be doing."

He had nicknamed Mrs. Delarayne "the Warrior" himself. He was sensitive
enough to apprehend the strong strain of courage in her character; he
had on several occasions been impressed by the tenacious boldness of her
claims to youth and by the energy she displayed in keeping up the
difficult part,--frequently entailing exertions out of all proportion to
her bodily vigour;--so he had nicknamed her "the Warrior." But this
sobriquet was used only when he and Cleopatra were alone together.

"The poor Warrior is peevish anyhow, you see," Cleopatra