me time she came to Devon
Street as often as, or oftener than, ever, and there her manner to Ted
had all its old charm, with something added; it was more deeply, more
seriously affectionate than before. And yet it was just in these tender
passages that Katherine detected the change of key. That tenderness was
not remorse, as she might have supposed. It had nothing to do with the
past, being purely an emotion of the passing moment. Audrey was playing
a new part. Her mind was swayed by a fresh current of ideas; it had
suffered the invasion of a foreign personality. The evidence for this
was purely psychological, but it all pointed one way. A sudden display
of new interests, a startling phrase, a word hitherto unknown in
Audrey's vocabulary, her way of handling a book, the alternate
excitement and preoccupation of her manner, they were all unmistakable.
Katherine had noticed the same signs in the days of Audrey's first
absorption in Ted. She had caught his tricks, his idioms, his way of
thinking. She had even begun to see, like Ted, the humour of things, and
to make reckless speeches, not quite like Ted, that shocked cousin
Bella's sense of propriety. Katherine had smiled at her innocent
plagiarism, and wondered at the transforming power of love. And
now--Audrey was actually undergoing another metempsychosis. Under whose
influence? Here again Katherine's instinct was correct. It was Wyndham's
presence that in three weeks had brought about the change. Yes; in that
impressive affection, in the pleading tremor of her voice, in her smiles
and caresses, Audrey was acting a part before one invisible spectator.
She played as if Wyndham were standing by and looking on. Her love for
Ted had been a reality; therefore it served as a standard to measure all
emotions by--it made this new passion of the imagination a thing of
flesh and blood. No wonder that she would not announce her engagement.
At the best of times her fluent nature shrank from everything that was
fixed and irrevocable--above all from the act of will that trammelled
her wandering fancy, the finality that limited her outlook upon life.
And now it was impossible. The three weeks in which she had known
Wyndham had shown her that, compared with that complex character, that
finished intellect, Ted was indeed little better than a baby. Not that
she could have done without Ted--far from it. As yet Wyndham was still
the unknown, shadowy, far-off, and unapproachable. The touch of