Now what have you to say to me?" she asked.

"I hardly know how to begin."

"Is Edward Barnard coming back?"

"No."

There was a long silence before Bateman spoke again, and with each of
them it was filled with many thoughts. It was a difficult story he had
to tell, for there were things in it which were so offensive to her
sensitive ears that he could not bear to tell them, and yet in justice
to her, no less than in justice to himself, he must tell her the whole
truth.

It had all begun long ago when he and Edward Barnard, still at college,
had met Isabel Longstaffe at the tea-party given to introduce her to
society. They had both known her when she was a child and they
long-legged boys, but for two years she had been in Europe to finish her
education and it was with a surprised delight that they renewed
acquaintance with the lovely girl who returned. Both of them fell
desperately in love with her, but Bateman saw quickly that she had eyes
only for Edward, and, devoted to his friend, he resigned himself to the
role of confidant. He passed bitter moments, but he could not deny that
Edward was worthy of his good fortune, and, anxious that nothing should
impair the friendship he so greatly valued, he took care never by a hint
to disclose his own feelings. In six months the young couple were
engaged. But they were very young and Isabel's father decided that they
should not marry at least till Edward graduated. They had to wait a
year. Bateman remembered the winter at the end of which Isabel and
Edward were to be married, a winter of dances and theatre-parties and of
informal gaieties at which he, the constant third, was always present.
He loved her no less because she would shortly be his friend's wife; her
smile, a gay word she flung him, the confidence of her affection, never
ceased to delight him; and he congratulated himself, somewhat
complacently, because he did not envy them their happiness. Then an
accident happened. A great bank failed, there was a panic on the
exchange, and Edward Barnard's father found himself a ruined man. He
came home one night, told his wife that he was penniless, and after
dinner, going into his study, shot himself.

A week later, Edward Barnard, with a tired, white face, went to Isabel
and asked her to release him. Her only answer was to throw her arms
round his neck and burst into tears.

"Don't make it harder for me, sweet," he said.

"Do you think I can let you go now? I love yo