was admitted. He heard him race upstairs
calling, "Mamma, Mamma! frightfully important!" That decided the
thing. He opened his door, listening to what followed. He heard Lucy's
voice, "I'm here. You can come in...." and was amazed. Was that Lucy's
voice? She was happy, then. He knew that by her tone. There was a lift
in it, a _timbre_. Was it just possible, by some chance, that he had
been a damned fool? He walked the room in some agitation, then went
hastily upstairs to dress.

Whether to a new James or not, dinner had a new Lucy to reveal; a Lucy
full of what he called "feminine charm"; a Lucy who appealed to him
across the table for support against a positive Lancelot; who brought
him in at all points; who was concerned for his opinion; who gave him
shy glances, who could even afford to be pert. He, being essentially
a fair-weather man, was able to meet her half-way--no more than that,
because he was what he was, always his own detective. The discipline
which he had taught himself to preserve was for himself first of all.

Lancelot noticed his father. "I say," he said, when he and Lucy were
in the drawing-room, "Father's awfully on the spot, isn't he? It's
Norway, I expect. Bucks him up."

"Norway is enough to excite anybody," Lucy said--"even me."

"Oh, you!" Lancelot was scornful. "Anything would excite you. Look at
Mr. Urquhart."

Lucy flickered. "How do you mean?" Lancelot was warm for his absent
friend.

"Why, you used to take a great interest in all his adventures--you
know you did."

This must be faced. "Of course I did. Well--?"

"Well," said Lancelot, very acutely, "now they seem rather
ordinary--rather chronic." _Chronic_ was a word of Crewdson's, used as
an augmentive. Lucy laughed, but faintly.

"Yes, I expect they are chronic. But I think Mr. Urquhart is very
nice."

"He's ripping," said Lancelot, in a stare.

James in the drawing-room that evening was studiously himself, and
Lucy fought with her restlessness, and prevailed against it. He was
shy, and spun webs of talk to conceal his preoccupations. Lucy watched
him guardedly, but with intense interest. It was when she went
upstairs that the amazing thing happened.

She stood by him, her hand once more upon his shoulder. He had his
book in his hand.

"I'm going," she said. "You have been very sweet to me. I don't
deserve it, you know."

He looked up at her, quizzing her through the detested glass. "You
darling," he said calmly, and s