thing, but gently stroking her hand.
Lady Valleys, who herself felt very much inclined to cry, went out of
sight into the embrasure of the window.

Barbara's sobbing was soon subdued.

"It's his face," she said: "And why? Why? It's so unnecessary!"

Lord Valleys, continually twisting his moustache, muttered:

"Exactly! He makes things for himself!"

"Yes," murmured Lady Valleys from the window, "he was always
uncomfortable, like that. I remember him as a baby. Bertie never was."

And then the silence was only broken by the little angry sounds of
Barbara blowing her nose.

"I shall go and see mother," said Lady Valleys, suddenly: "The boy's
whole life may be ruined if we can't stop this. Are you coming, child?"

But Barbara refused.

She went to her room, instead. This crisis in Miltoun's life had
strangely shaken her. It was as if Fate had suddenly revealed all that
any step out of the beaten path might lead to, had brought her sharply
up against herself. To wing out into the blue! See what it meant! If
Miltoun kept to his resolve, and gave up public life, he was lost! And
she herself! The fascination of Courtier's chivalrous manner, of a sort
of innate gallantry, suggesting the quest of everlasting danger--was it
not rather absurd? And--was she fascinated? Was it not simply that
she liked the feeling of fascinating him? Through the maze of these
thoughts, darted the memory of Harbinger's face close to her own, his
clenched hands, the swift revelation of his dangerous masculinity. It
was all a nightmare of scaring queer sensations, of things that could
never be settled. She was stirred for once out of all her normal
conquering philosophy. Her thoughts flew back to Miltoun. That which she
had seen in their faces, then, had come to pass! And picturing Agatha's
horror, when she came to hear of it, Barbara could not help a smile.
Poor Eustace! Why did he take things so hardly? If he really carried out
his resolve--and he never changed his mind--it would be tragic! It would
mean the end of everything for him!

Perhaps now he would get tired of Mrs. Noel. But she was not the sort
of woman a man would get tired of. Even Barbara in her inexperience
felt that. She would always be too delicately careful never to cloy him,
never to exact anything from him, or let him feel that he was bound to
her by so much as a hair. Ah! why couldn't they go on as if nothing had
happened? Could nobody persuade him? She thought again of