dusk. There was an exclamation, a silence. By
this time French was on the lawn, his wife's quivering hand in his.
Daphne retreated slowly into the study and Roger Barnes followed her.

"Leave them alone," said French, and putting an arm round his wife he
led her resolutely away, out of sound and sight.

* * * * *

Barnes stood silent, breathing heavily and leaning on the back of a
chair. The western light from a side window struck full on him. But
Daphne, the wave of excitement spent, was not looking at him. She had
fallen upon a sofa, her face was in her hands.

"What do you want with me?" said Roger at last. Then, in a sudden heat,
"By God, I never wished to see you again!"

Daphne's muffled voice came through her fingers.

"I know that. You needn't tell me so!"

Roger turned away.

"You'll admit it's an intrusion?" he said fiercely. "I don't see what
you and I have got to do with each other now."

Daphne struggled for self-control. After all, she had always managed him
in the old days. She would manage him now.

"Roger--I--I didn't come to discuss the past. That's done with. But--I
heard things about you--that----"

"You didn't like?" he laughed. "I'm sorry, but I don't see what you have
to do with them."

Daphne's hand fidgeted with her dress, her eyes still cast down.

"Couldn't we talk without bitterness? Just for ten minutes? It was from
Captain Boyson that I heard----"

"Oh, Boyson, was that it? And he got his information from French--poor
old Herbert. Well, it's quite true. I'm no longer fit for your--or
his--or anybody's society."

He threw himself into an arm-chair, calmly took a cigarette out of a box
that lay near, and lit it. Daphne at last ventured to look at him. The
first and dominant impression was of something shrunken and diminished.
His blue flannel suit hung loose on his shoulders and chest, his
athlete's limbs. His features had been thinned and graved and scooped by
fever and broken nights; all the noble line and proportion was still
there, but for one who had known him of old the effect was no longer
beautiful but ghastly. Daphne stared at him in dismay.

He on his side observed his visitor, but with a cooler curiosity. Like
French he noticed the signs of change, the dying down of brilliance and
of bloom. To go your own way, as Daphne had done, did not seem to
conduce to a woman's good looks.

At last he threw in a dry interrogation.

"Well?"