trophe, her
self-control suddenly deserted her. She sank into a chair with her hands
over her face and began to cry.

Now, Phil was young, and no woman had ever thus abandoned herself to
tears in his presence before. The sight sent a sharp shock through him
that was almost like a dart of physical pain. It paralysed him for an
instant; but the next he strode forward, convention flung to the winds,
desirous only to comfort. He reached her and bent over her, one hand
upon her shaking shoulder.

"I say, Mrs. Tudor, don't--don't!" he urged. "What is the matter? You're
not crying because I wouldn't do as you asked me? You couldn't care all
that for such a trifle?"

His voice was husky with agitation. He felt guiltily that it was all his
fault, and he could have kicked himself for his clumsiness.

She did not answer him, nor did her sobs grow less. It was the pent-up
misery of weeks to which she was giving vent, and, having yielded, it
was no easy matter to check herself again.

Phil became desperate and knelt down by her side, almost as distressed
as she.

"I say," he pleaded--"I say, Audrey, don't cry! Tell me what is wrong.
Let me help you. Give me a chance, anyhow. I--I'd do anything in the
world, you know. Only tell me."

He drew one of her hands away from her face and held it between his own.
She did not resist him. Her need of a comforter just then was very
great. Her head was bowed almost against his shoulder and it did not
occur to either of them that they were transgressing the most
elementary laws of conventionality.

"You can't help me," she sobbed at last. "No one can. I'm just lonely
and miserable and homesick. I hate this place and everyone in it
except--except you--and a few others. I wish I were back in England. I
wish I'd never left it. I wish--I wish--I'd never married."

Her voice came muffled and piteous. It was the cry of a desolate child.
And all the deep chivalry in Phil's soul quivered and thrilled in
response. Before he knew it, tender, consoling words had sprung to his
lips.

"Don't cry, dear; don't cry!" he said. "You'll feel better about it
presently. We all go through it, and it's beastly, I know, I know. But
it won't last. Nothing does in this chancy world. So what's the good of
fretting?"

She could not tell him. Her trouble was too immense at that moment to
bear discussion. But he comforted her. She liked the feel of his hand
upon her shoulder; the firm, friendly grasp of his fin