ll! Are we not always 'stilling'? I wonder that a man
of your experience finds anything remarkable in that. Oh, do not
interrupt!"--for he made a deprecating gesture, opening his mouth to
speak--"I will hear no excuses for banality. 'The ringing grooves of
change' is pure fallacy; change is absent; only the grooves remain. We
are what we are. As it was in the beginning, is now, and--do I shock
you?" she asked abruptly, turning to Lionel.

"Surprise; not shock," he smiled.

"Then you owe me a debt of gratitude. Surprise is one of nature's best
gifts, but at our mature age she is parsimonious. Don't you agree, Mr.
Beckett?"

He, too, smiled, but mournfully.

"I have more need to count my birthdays than you," he said. "If your
surprises are few, how many can I hope for?"

"_Nil desperandum!_" she said cheerfully and less self-consciously,
taking him, comrade-like, by the arm. "Come and find your motor: perhaps
a surprise is waiting--some ragamuffin may have put a penknife through
the tire!"

"I hope not!" he said more briskly. "As it has only just come from
London this afternoon to take me back after my holiday, I don't want to
be balked at the outset. Well, good-by, Mr. Mortimer."

"Good-by," said Lionel, shaking hands. "No chance of seeing you down
here again presently, I suppose?"

"Who knows?" said Miss Arkwright vivaciously, taking the words from his
lips. "A dashing adventurer like Mr. Beckett, whose only serious
business is golf----"

She did not finish the sentence, but led him off, protesting that the
slander was ill-deserved. Lionel watched them disappear, heavy with
thought.

Miss Arkwright did not come back. He was glad of her absence, for he
could only think, and think, and think again what it all meant, trying
to find some key to the perpetual problem. There were Beatrice, Winifred
and the ambassador forever whirling through his brain, suggesting,
perplexing, questioning. Where was the clew? If only he could put his
hand on some definite idea, some shred of coherence in the whole amazing
scheme! Beatrice had warned him that her sister and "Mr. Beckett" were
conspiring. Good: that was definite, and the ambassador's visit was
proof of fellowship--in what? High politics? The life of Lukos? It
seemed so unlikely in this pleasant English garden, but the facts were
stubborn. Then he had not heard from Beatrice. He had thought she and
Winifred might be identical.... Stay! he had discarded that.... Let u