sap of spring, he
proclaimed his engagement to that charming lady, Mrs. Fazakerly.

Durant had no sooner congratulated him on the event than he
remembered that he had left the postscript of Miss Tancred's letter
unanswered. She had said, "Write and tell me how he takes it"; she
had hoped that he would not be unhappy. So he wrote: "He took it
uncommonly well" (that was not strictly true, but Durant was
determined to set Frida Tancred's conscience at rest, even if he had
to tamper a little with his own). "I should not say that he will be
very unhappy. On the contrary, he has just assured me that he is
the happiest man on earth. He is engaged to be married to Mrs.
Fazakerly."

It was a masterly stroke on Mrs. Fazakerly's part, and it had
followed so closely on the elopement (as closely, indeed, as
consequence on cause) that Durant had to admit that he had grossly
underrated the powers of this remarkable woman. He had been lost in
admiration of Miss Chatterton's elaborate intrigue and bold
independent action; but now he came to think of it, though Miss
Chatterton's style was more showy, Mrs. Fazakerly had played by far
the better game of the two. Durant, who had regarded himself as a
trump card up Mrs. Fazakerly's sleeve, perceived with a pang that he
had counted for nothing in the final move. Mrs. Fazakerly had not,
as he idiotically supposed, been greatly concerned with Frida
Tancred's attitude toward him. She had divined nothing, imagined
nothing, she had been both simpler and subtler than he knew. She had
desired the removal of Frida Tancred from her path, and at the right
moment she had produced Georgie Chatterton. She had played her
deliberately, staking everything on the move. Georgie's independence
had been purely illusory. She had appeared at Mrs. Fazakerly's
bidding, she had behaved as Mrs. Fazakerly had foreseen, she had
removed Frida Tancred, and Durant had been nowhere. Mrs. Fazakerly's
little gray eyes could read the characters of men and women at a
glance, and as instantly inferred their fitness or unfitness for her
purpose. She might be a poor hand at the game of whist, but at the
game of matrimony she was magnificent and supreme.

Frida had said, "We sail to-morrow"; therefore, Durant walked all
the way to Whithorn-in-Arden to post his letter, so that it might
reach her before she left London. And as he came back across the
dewy path in the dim light, and Coton Manor raised its forehead
from the embra