ween himself and Margaret and that their last parting in the street
had not been really final. The fact was that he merely yielded to the
tormenting desire to see her again, if for only a few minutes and in
the presence of Mrs. Rushmore.

But the meeting in the Boulevard Pereire had chilled him like a stream
of cold water poured down his back; than which homely simile there is
none more true. He had fancied her very grave and even a little sad,
going quietly to her rehearsals with a maid, or even with Mrs.
Rushmore, speaking to no one at the theatre and returning at once to
Versailles to reflect on the vicissitudes to which human affections are
subject.

He had come upon her suddenly and unawares, in a very smart frock and a
superlatively becoming hat, smiling gaily, just stepping out of a
magnificent white motor car, resting her hand familiarly on that of the
most successful young financier in Paris, whose conquests among women
of the world were a byword, and chaperoned by a flighty little
Neapolitan teacher of singing. Truly, if some one had deliberately
rubbed the back of his neck with a large lump of ice on that warm
spring day, the chill could not have been more effectual. Morally
speaking, Lushington caught a bad cold, which 'struck in,' as old
people used to say.

He might have explained to himself that as he had insisted upon parting
from Margaret for ever, and against her will, her subsequent doings
were none of his business. But he was half an Englishman by birth and
altogether one by bringing up, and he therefore could not admit that
she should be apparently enjoying herself, while he was gloomily
brooding over the misfortunes that put her beyond his reach. The fable
of the Dog in the Manger must have been composed to describe us
Anglo-Saxons. It is sufficient that we be hindered from getting what we
want, even by our own sense of honour; we are forthwith ready to
sacrifice life and limb to prevent any other man from getting it. The
magnanimity of our renunciation is only to be compared with our
tenacity in asserting our claim to what we have renounced. Even our
charities usually have strings to them on which our hold never relaxes,
in case we should want them back.

Lushington had never trusted Logotheti, but since his instinct and the
force of circumstances had told him that the Greek was making love to
Margaret and that Margaret liked his society, he hated the man in a
most unchristian manner, and few