e walking in spring
woods and smelt everywhere the rising sap and the breath of violets. She
was remote, blighted, yet buoyant. When she rose to go, he realised with
sudden dismay that to-day was his last in Chislebridge and that he
should not see her again for who knew how long.

"Is the pagoda placed?" he asked her. "Does it fulfil your
expectations?"

"Yes, indeed," she said. "I spent two hours yesterday in washing and
mending it. It is immaculate now, as lovely as a pearl."

"I wish I could see it," said Owen.

"Why, pray, then, come and see it. Can you come to tea with me and my
mother-in-law to-morrow?"

"I'm going away to-morrow," said Owen, dismally. And then he bethought
him. "Can't I walk back with you now? Is it too late? Only
five-thirty."

"Not in the least too late. Mamma will still be having tea, and she
loves people to drop in. But ought you to come away?" Mrs. Waterlow
glanced round the crowded room.

"I'll not be missed," he assured her with some conscious speciousness.

Gwendolen, indeed, had time only for a little stare of surprise when he
told her that he was going to look at the pagoda with Mrs. Waterlow. She
was receiving new guests, richly furred and motor-veiled ladies who had
come in from the country and were expatiating over the beauties of the
red lacquer cabinets, Gwendolen's latest acquisitions.

"That will be delightful," she said; "and now Owen will see that sweet
drawing-room of yours, dearest. You have made it so pretty!"

Owen observed that Mrs. Waterlow, while maintaining all the suavities of
intercourse, did not address Gwendolen as dearest.

It was not far to Mrs. Waterlow's, and he said, in reply to her
question, that he liked walking, if she didn't mind going slowly on his
account. He found himself telling her, then, about his lameness. A bad
fall while skating in boyhood had handicapped him for life. The lamps
had just been lighted and the evening of early spring was blurred with
mist. Catkins hung against a faintly rosy sky, and in the gardens that
they passed the crocuses stood thickly. Owen had a sense of adventure
poignant in its reminiscent magic. Not for years had he so felt the
savour of youth. He realised, with a deep happiness, that Mrs. Waterlow
liked him; sometimes she laughed at things he said, and once or twice
when her eyes turned on him he fancied in them the same expression of
happy discovery with which she had looked at the pagoda. Well, he
reflecte