he perturbing sense of her nearness, had for the
first time wrenched him away from the obsession of the past. But even
now he dared not frankly face the future; dared not let his mind dwell
on the colourless emptiness of life without her. Neither could he, as
yet, face the only alternative--to tell her, of all women, that he had
loved her before his wife's death. Besides, there was Paul, who
obviously cared, in his own repressed fashion, and who must not be
baulked of his chance.

Yet to-night, as he tramped the whole round of that rocky headland--in
the glow of a sky rippled by now with feathers of flame--his blood was
in a fever for sheer desire of her, and he cursed the folly that had
impelled him to refuse the morning's golden opportunity.

Returning later, in a more chastened mood, he found Wyndham sitting
still as a statue, seemingly forgetful of his existence; and of a
sudden his heart contracted at thought of his friend's inexhaustible
patience, his unquestioning acceptance of moods to which he did not
hold the key. Stepping lightly, Desmond came up behind him and laid
both hands on his shoulders.

"Forgive me, old man. I didn't precisely mean all that----"

Wyndham scarcely started.

"I thought as much! Don't apologise!" he said, looking up with his
slow smile. "It was a pure pleasure to hear you swear again!"

Desmond laughed abruptly. "You'll get more than enough of that kind of
pleasure if they refuse me my six months!--But look here, I'm thinking
I can't keep _you_ away from them any longer----"

"My dear Theo," Paul interposed with gentle decision. "So long as you
stay--I stay. That goes without saying. Meredith will fix it up for
us--no fear. Come on now. It's time we went indoors."

They sauntered back up the gravel path together without further
speech, yet with thoughts more closely linked than either guessed;
thoughts that flew instinctively as homing doves to the one beloved
woman--Honor Meredith.

II.

A late April evening on Lake Como:--for the initiated there is magic
in the very words; magic of light and warmth and colour; glory of
roses and wistaria, that everywhere renew the youth of ancient ruins
and walls and weave a spring garment even for the sombre cypress who
has none of his own. Love-song of birds, laughter of men and women,
the passionate blue above, the sun-warmed cobblestones underfoot--in
these also there is magic, unseizable, irresistible as the happiness
of a chil