ight of his host he had made up his
mind that the Colonel would have nothing to say that could possibly
keep him going for more than three minutes, yet the Colonel had
talked for two hours. Durant had been counting the buttons on the
Colonel's waistcoat and the minutes on the drawing-room clock, and
wondering when it would be dinnertime. Once or twice he had caught
himself looking round the room for some sign or token of Miss
Tancred. He believed in her with a blind, unquestioning belief, but
beyond a work-basket, a grand piano, and some atrocious
water-colors, he could discover no authentic traces of her presence.
The room kept its own dull counsel. It was one of those curious
provincial interiors that seem somehow to be soulless and sexless in
their unfathomable reserve. It was more than comfortable, it was
opulent, luxurious; but the divine touch was wanting. It made Durant
wonder whether there really was a Miss Tancred, much as you might
doubt the existence of a God from the lapses in his creation. Still,
he believed in her because there was nothing else to believe in. He
had gathered from the Colonel's conversation that there was no
fishing on his land, and no animal in his stables but the
respectable and passionless pair that brought him from the station.

Could it be that there was no Miss Tancred?

Durant, already veering toward scepticism, had been about to plunge
into the depths of bottomless negation when the Colonel rose
punctually at the stroke of seven.

"My daughter," he had said, "my daughter will be delighted to make
your acquaintance."

And Durant had replied that he would be delighted to make Miss
Tancred's.

There was nothing else to be delighted about. He had divined pretty
clearly that Miss Tancred's society would be the only entertainment
offered to him during his stay, and the most outrageous flirtation
would be justifiable in the circumstances; he had seen himself
driven to it in sheer desperation and self-defense; he had longed
hopelessly, inexpressibly, for the return of the absconding deity;
he had looked on Miss Tancred as his hope, his angel, his deliverer.
That she had not been at home to receive him seemed a little odd,
but on second thoughts he had been glad of it. He would have
distrusted any advances on her part as arguing a certain poverty of
personal resource. Presumably Miss Tancred could afford a little
indifference, a touch of divine disdain. And if indeed she had used
abs