is little campaign
of tenderness; they gave over being afraid of each other. He was too
shrewd, too crafty to venture an open declaration; too much of a
gentleman to force her hand ruthlessly. She understood and appreciated
this considerateness. Their conflict was with the eyes, the tone of the
voice, the intervals of silence; no touch of the hand--nothing, except
the strategies of Eros.

What did it matter if a few dead impulses, a few crippled ideals, a few
blasted hopes were left strewn upon the battlefield at the end of the
fortnight? What mattered if there was grave danger of one or both of
them receiving heart wounds that would cling to them all their lives?
What did anything matter, so long as Prince Karl of Brabetz was not
there?

One night toward the end of this week of enchanting rencontres--this
week of effort to uncover the vulnerable spot in the other's
armour--Genevra stood leaning upon the rail which enclosed the hanging
garden. She was gazing abstractedly into the black night, out of which,
far away, blinked the light in the bungalow. A dreamy languor lay upon
her. She heard the cry of the night birds, the singing of woodland
insects, but she was not aware of these persistent sounds; far below in
the grassy court she could hear Britt conversing with Saunders and Miss
Pelham; behind her in the little garden, Lady Deppingham and Browne had
their heads close together over a table on which they were playing a
newly discovered game of "solitaire"; Deppingham and Mrs. Browne leaned
against the opposite railing, looking down into the valley. The soft
night wind fanned her face, bringing to her nostrils the scent of the
fragrant forest. It was the first night in a week that he had missed
coming to the chateau.

She missed him. She was lonely.

He had told her of the meeting that was to be held at the bungalow that
night, at which he was to be asked to deliver over to Rasula's committee
the papers, the receipts and the memoranda that he had accumulated
during his months of employment in their behalf. She had a feeling of
dread--a numb, sweet feeling that she could not explain, except that
under all of it lay the proud consciousness that he was a man who had
courage, a man who was not afraid.

"How silly I am," she said, half aloud in her abstraction.

She turned her gaze away from the blinking light in the hills, a queer,
guilty smile on her lips. The wistful, shamed smile faded as she looked
upon the cou