rent. . . ."

He slipped her arm through his and walked up and down the gravel path
describing his conception of a novel as it had revealed itself to him a
week before when he was at an Albert Hall concert. His confidence
flattered her into disregarding the egotism which made him remember her
only when he wanted to talk about himself; she forgot the sensation that
he had outgrown her as much as he had outgrown the paper-boat races on
the mill-stream by their side. Once the night wind, blowing on to her
unprotected shoulders, sent a shiver through her; but it was Eric who
coughed, and she wondered whether he knew why Lady Lane always looked so
anxiously at his sunken cheeks and starved body. She wondered, too,
whether she would have cared for him so much if he had been robust and
tranquil as Geoff.

The music had ended long before he had done talking; tentative cries of
"Agnes!" passed unheeded, and she was only recalled to the present by
the appearance of Colonel Waring in overcoat and soft hat half-way
through the open window.

"Bed-time, Agnes," he called out, sniffing the night air. "If you've
been giving that girl of mine a chill, Eric----"

"You're not cold, are you?" Eric asked her.

"Not very," she answered with a tired and rather disappointed smile.

"Oh, but why didn't you tell me?" he protested in a convincing voice of
concern, as he led her back into the house and helped her into her
cloak. As a chorus of farewell rose and isolated them, he lowered his
voice. "You'll let me know when you have any news of Jack, won't you?"

"_If_," she answered wistfully.

"You mustn't lose heart. I expect he's all right, and there's been some
hitch in getting the news through. He's all right, Agnes."

"I hope so."

She shook hands and walked despondently into the night. Eric seemed to
have become artificial in the last few months--just when he might have
helped her most. He lengthened his face and lowered his voice
sympathetically, but he was growing into a social puppet and losing his
individuality. . . . It had not been a very amusing dinner.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Colonel Waring asked her, as they settled into
the car.

"Very much, thanks," she answered quietly. "I'm rather tired, though."

Benyon told her that Eric's new play was to be produced within a month
and invited her to come with him. She answered uncertainly and lapsed
into silence.

As the car bumped over the springy turf of Lashmar Common,