man of the world as he was, did not reason at all
along those lines. Whether because he was vain, as most men are, or
because he was susceptible as he always told himself he was, he
believed what she said. More than once during the week at Trouville,
when she should have been absorbed in Polonna, Bulstrode had caught her
eyes fastened upon himself and as soon as she had met his own she had
turned hers away. He had no difficulty now in recalling the Mill on
the Rose, or the lovely bit of country where his shooting-box had held
him captive for nearly the whole hunting season. Nor had he any
difficulty in recalling the miller and his pretty daughter. Felicia
even then had been a wonder of good looks, and very intelligent and
mature. He could even see her as a child more plainly than he could
recall the woman who had just left him. She had been a pretty,
romantic girl and--she had deeply charmed him. He had walked with her
under the willows; he had told her many things; he had gone boating
with her on the Rose; he had tramped with her along the English lanes.
Of course he had been wrong. He had known it at the time--he had known
it. And perhaps one reason why he never reverted willingly to the days
spent with the girl was because his conscience had not left him free.
The money given to Doan, Bulstrode had always felt, was a sort of
recompense for hours of pleasure to which he had no right. Even at the
time he had feared that he had disturbed the girl's peace, and because
he had not wished to disturb his own, he had given up his lease and
left the place. Twelve years! Well, they had altered her enormously,
and her life had altered her and her experiences, and she was a very
charming creature. She was, in a measure, his very own work--almost
his creation. He had helped her to change her station, to alter her
life. What had she become?

Bulstrode's reflections consumed twenty minutes by the clock. He had
smoked a cigarette and walked up and down the deserted room, passing
many times the table where his gold lay scattered.

Finally--he did not dare to trust himself to go out to her--he called
her name, Felicia Warren's name, gently, and she came directly in.

Whilst alone on the balcony she had wept. Bulstrode could see the
trace on her cheeks and she was paler even than when he had struck the
pistol from her hand in the gardens of the Casino. She came over to
where he stood and said:

"It's not a ruse,