ely with eager joy. They felt that this was 'life,' one of the
justifications of existence.

She shook her head slowly.

'Yes,' he continued, 'it's you who stay quietly at home that are to be
envied.'

'And you, a free bachelor, say that! Why, I should have thought----'

'That's just it. You're quite wrong, if you'll let me say so. Here am I,
a free bachelor, as you call it. Can do what I like. Go where I like.
And yet I would sell my soul for a home like this. Something ... you
know. No, you don't. People say that women understand men and what men
feel, but they can't--they can't.'

'No,' said Leonora seriously, 'I don't think they can--still, I have a
notion of what you mean.' She spoke with modest sympathy.

'Have you?' he questioned.

She nodded. For a fraction of an instant she thought of her husband,
stolid with all his impulsiveness, over at David Dain's.

'People say to me, "Why don't you get married?"' Twemlow went on, drawn
by the subtle invitation of her manner. 'But how can I get married? I
can't get married by taking thought. They make me tired. I ask them
sometimes whether they imagine I keep single for the fun of the
thing.... Do you know that I've never yet been in love--no, not the
least bit.'

He presented her with this fact as with a jewel, and she so accepted it.

'What a pity!' she said, gently.

'Yes, it's a pity,' he admitted. 'But look here. That's the worst of me.
When I get talking about myself I'm likely to become a bore.'

Offering him the cigarette cabinet she breathed the old, effective,
sincere answer: 'Not at all, it's very interesting.'

'Let me see, this house belongs to you, doesn't it?' he said in a
different casual tone as he lighted a cigarette.

Shortly afterwards he departed. John had not returned from Dain's, but
Twemlow said that he could not possibly stay, as he had an appointment
at Hanbridge. He shook hands with restrained ardour. Her last words to
him were: 'I'm so sorry my husband isn't back,' and even these ordinary
words struck him as a beautiful phrase. Alone in the drawing-room, she
sighed happily and examined herself in the large glass over the
mantelpiece. The shaded lights left her loveliness unimpaired; and yet,
as she gazed at the mirror, the worm gnawing at the root of her
happiness was not her husband's precarious situation, nor his
deviousness, nor even his mere existence, but the one thought: 'Oh! That
I were young again!'

* *