n she doesn't care about him?"

"Oh, no, she cares about him, and it's because she cares so that she
can't stand him."

"Well," I said, "whether she cares or not, it's rough on Jimmy."

"It's rough on her. It's rough on both of them. It's getting rougher and
rougher, and it's wearing her out."

"Won't it wear him out too?"

"N-no. Nothing will wear Jimmy out. He's indestructible. He'll wear her
out."

"He says he's going to take a house in the country. How do you think
that'll answer?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know, Walter. I don't really know. It sounds risky."

"The whole thing," I said, "was risky from the start."

"There are two things," she said, "that would save them--if Reggie were
to come round. Or if Jimmy were to have an illness; and neither of them
is in the least likely to happen."

"There's a third thing," I said--"if Viola were to have a baby."

"That isn't likely either. He'd never let her. He says it would kill her.
It's pitiful, it's pitiful. Can't you see," she said, "that he adores
her?"

I said I didn't see what we were there for, and that it was time for us
to go.

As I followed her down the stairs that led to the Tudor hall she paused
suddenly on the landing where a second lion marked the turn. She had her
finger to her lip. We drew back. But not before I had looked down over
the balustrade into the hall and seen Jimmy sitting on one of the thrones
with the lilies of France, and Viola crouching beside him on the rug with
her head hidden on his knee.

He had his hands on her forehead and was saying, "It's all right. Do you
suppose I don't understand?"

XI

It was late in August before Jevons found a country house large enough,
yet not too large, and old enough, yet not too old--he would have nothing
that even remotely suggested the Tudor period. And in the intervals of
looking for his house he wrote another novel and two more plays. There
was a decided falling-off in all of them, and I think Jevons himself was
a little nervous. He said he'd have to be careful next time or they'd
find him out. Once he had settled the affair of the house he would set to
work and strengthen the position which, after all, he hadn't lost.

He had gained, if anything. Nineteen-thirteen stands as his year of
maximum prosperity. Even the house in Mayfair justified itself when he
let it, with all its principal rooms furnished, to an American railway
magnate at a rent that enabled him to