aid, "the things you didn't tell me, were they true?"

"Yes, they were true."

He had got up and knelt by her chair.

She put her hand on his head.

"St. John," she said. Should she tell him that they were not true? That
he was building up a retrospective passion which had never existed? That
what he supposed to have been renunciation and self-control and chivalry
had in reality been a rather tactfully steered uninflammable affection?
Why his voice now was far more broken up and moved than she had ever
heard it before. Of course he had not been in love with her. She had
never realised it as clearly as to-night. For a moment he put his face
in her lap, then he kissed her hands--reverently, in memory of his great
sacrifice.

"May I smoke a cigarette?" he asked.

"Please do."

He went back to his chair.

She was, he said, a wonderful friend.

So, she said, was he.

They talked about his family and her family--a little about their mutual
friends and a lot about friends of his that she had never seen.

They talked about furniture and gardens.

There were, he said, a lot of subjects on which he wanted her advice.

It was all very domestic, their two armchairs and the fire--the dying
fire. He must, she supposed, be imagining that they were married, seeing
her at the head of the table, in the family pew. She wondered if he
would have let her re-set the family jewels. Perhaps his mind had
reached the nursery. He was dreaming of children, his children, her
children, their children.

Dear St. John. She looked at him tenderly. She longed to explain what an
unsuitable wife she would have made him.

"What are you thinking about?" her voice was very gentle.

"I was thinking of the cattle I bought to-day, and wondering what sort
of fencing I should put up at the bottom of the drive. Ariadne, you
remember how gregarious I used to be; well, you can't think how
perfectly happy I am living here alone."

Smiles were popping out of her face shamelessly. No sooner had she kept
one out of her eyes than it reappeared on her lips.

"Dear St. John," she said, "I do love you."

He looked, she thought, a little alarmed.

"Not like that, that is all over."

"Quite over?"

"Quite--are you glad?"

"If it makes you happier," and then, "No, I'm damned if I'm glad."

"Thank you, St. John," she was laughing a little.

He looked puzzled, even rather disappointed.

She had broken the rules and laughed.

"How lucky you did