in the scarlet trumpet-flowers, she
wandered into the house and through to the cool patio.

For some days, now, after Hamil's daily departure, it had happened that
an almost unendurable restlessness akin to suspense took possession of
her; a distaste and impatience of people and their voices, and the
routine of the commonplace.

To occupy herself in idleness was an effort; she had no desire to. She
had recently acquired the hammock habit, lying for hours in the coolness
of the patio, making no effort to think, listening to the splash of the
fountain, her book or magazine open across her breast. When people came
she picked up the book and scanned its pages; sometimes she made
pretence of sleeping.

But that morning, Malcourt, errant, found her reading in her hammock.
Expecting him to pass his way as usual, she nodded with civil
indifference, and continued her reading.

"I want to ask you something," he said, "if I may interrupt you."

"What is it, Louis?"

"May I draw up a chair?"

"Why--if you wish. Is there anything I can do for you? "--closing her
book.

"Is there anything I can do for _you_, Shiela?"

A tinge of colour came into her cheeks.

"Thank you," she said in curt negation.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Quite. What do you mean?"

"There is one thing I might do for your sake," he smiled--"blow my bally
brains out."

She said in a low contemptuous voice: "Better resort to that for your
own sake than do what you are doing to Miss Suydam."

"What am I doing to Miss Suydam?"

"Making love to her."

He sat, eyes idly following the slight swaying motion of her hammock,
the smile still edging his lips.

"Don't worry about Miss Suydam," he said; "she can take care of herself.
What I want to say is this: Once out of mistaken motives--which nobody,
including yourself, would ever credit--I gave you all I had to give--my
name.... It's not much of a name; but I thought you could use it. I was
even fool enough to think--other things. And as usual I succeeded in
injuring where I meant only kindness. Can you believe that?"

"I--think you meant it kindly," she said under her breath. "It was my
fault, Louis. I do not blame you, if you really cared for me. I've told
you so before."

"Yes, but I was ass enough to think _you_ cared for _me_."

She lay in her hammock, looking at him across the crimson-fringed
border.

"There are two ways out of it," he said; "one is divorce. Have you
changed your mind?"