no suggestion that the visit was being prolonged a little queerly.
Lionel, you may be sure, did not offer to go: he was obeying Beatrice
(who had not written again, though he sent a daily bulletin to London),
and was in no hurry to study fresh characters. It was no ill reward of
virtue to find a replica of Beatrice to keep his devotion alive. A
brutal phrase,--too brutal. His devotion was there, hidden below the
surface, but necessarily quiescent as long as Lukos lived. That might be
for years; therefore, why not sun himself in Beatrice's rays by proxy?
A statue can partly compensate for the loss of an adored: even a
photograph is better than nothing. But a real woman,--a living
replica ... Lionel thought himself in luck. He mentioned this in one of
his letters, hoping to show how strong and faithful he was. He did not
mention it to Winifred. Even a lay figure has feelings.

A lay figure ... was she merely that? The question came to him more than
once during that peaceful fortnight. He faced it without a blush, and up
to the present had always been able to give an affirmative answer. His
memory of Beatrice and the unnecessary warning in her letter enabled him
to watch, admire and lightly dally with the rose-weaved chains. He
laughed at the warning: he was a man, of course, and no stronger than
his fellows; but fancy being in danger of falling in love with Miss
Arkwright! In love--real, genuine love ... absurd! Why, he was not in
love with Beatrice. Was he? N ... no.... He was a free man--hurrah!

At the end of ten days he could utter the mental hurrah with a braver
note: Beatrice was a darling, whom he hoped to see again soon. But in
love? No. In love with Miss Arkwright, then? (In his mind he now called
her Winifred.) No. Of course not. Absurd. Was she not a lay figure?....
Stay!--that was hardly the choicest of expressions, hardly respectful or
considerate. She was a delightful lady whom it was his painful duty to
watch. But one must not speak of her as a lay figure: that is crude,
elementary ... containing a grain of truth, one admits, but likely to be
misinterpreted by the vulgar herd. "A peerless proxy" would be more in
keeping.

And the proxy, what of her? How had she fared during her unusual
fortnight? Patently, anything but ill. Under the sun of Lionel's
sympathetic kindliness her virgin coldness melted. They talked together
on every subject--men and women, books, art, music. Their views often
clashed, but i