rresponsible chatter of Saturday,
but neither alluded to it, nor did Medenham offer to lead Cynthia to
Garrick's birthplace. Not forty-eight hours, but long years, as
measured by the seeming trivialities that go to make or mar existence,
spanned the interval between Bristol and Hereford. They chafed against
the bonds of steel that yet sundered them; they resented the silent
edict that aimed at parting them; by a hundred little artifices each
made clear to the other that the coming separation was distasteful,
while an eager interest in the commonplace supplied sure index of
their embarrassment. And so, almost as a duty, the West Front, the
North Porch, the Close, the Green, the Wye Bridge, were duly
snap-shotted and recorded in a little book that Cynthia carried.

[Illustration: Fitzroy poses as the first Earl of Chepstow.
_Page 263_]

Once, while she was making a note, Medenham held the camera, and
happened to watch her as she wrote. At the top of a page he saw "Film
6, No. 5: Fitzroy poses as the first Earl of Chepstow." Cynthia's left
hand hid the entry just a second too late.

"I couldn't help seeing that," he said innocently. "If you will give
me a print, I shall have it framed and place it among the other family
portraits."

"I really meant to present you with an album containing all the
pictures which turn out well," she said.

"You have not changed your mind, I hope?"

"N--no, but there will be so few. I was rather lazy during the first
two days."

"You can trust me to fill in the gaps with exceeding accuracy."

"Oh, don't let us talk as if we would never meet again. The world is
small--to motorists."

"I had the exact contrary in mind," he said quickly. "If we parted
to-day, and did not meet for twenty years, each of us might well be
doubtful as to what did or did not happen last Friday or Saturday. But
association strengthens and confirms such recollections. I often think
that memories held in common are the most solid foundation of
friendship."

"You don't believe, then, in love at first sight," she ventured.

"Let me be dumb rather than so misunderstood!" he cried.

Cynthia breathed deeply. She was profoundly conscious of an escape
wholly due to his forbearance, but she was terrified at finding that
her thankfulness was of a very doubtful quality. She knew now that
this man loved her, and the knowledge was at once an ecstasy and a
torture. And how