Joan than augured well
for his peace of mind. He had been over to call, and had discovered
that she had gone North very suddenly, and it was not certain when she
would return. And so he escaped from Aunt Jane as soon as he politely
could, and strolled back through the woods, conscious of a sense of
acute disappointment.

He went to his customary hiding place by the little waterfall, and,
lighting his pipe sat down on the grass.

"My son," he murmured to himself, "you'd better take a pull. Miss Joan
Devereux is marrying a millionaire to save the family. You are
marrying Margaret Trent--and it were better not to forget those two
simple facts. . . ."

He pulled Margaret's letter out of his pocket, and started to read it
through again. But after a moment it dropped unheeded on the ground
beside him, and he sat motionless, staring at the pool. He did not see
the green of the undergrowth; he did not hear a thrush pouring out its
little soul from a bush close by. He saw a huddled, shapeless thing
sagging into a still smoking crater; he heard the drone of engines
dying faintly in the distance and a voice whispering, "The devils . . .
the vile devils."

And then another picture took its place--the picture of a girl in grey,
lying back on a mass of cushions, with a faint mocking light in her
eyes, and a smile which hovered now and then round her lips. . . .

A very wise old frog regarded him for a moment and then croaked
derisively. "Go to the devil," said Vane. "Compared with Margaret,
what has the other one done in this war that is worth doing?"

"You must be even more damn foolish than most humans," it remarked, "if
you try to make yourself think that the way of a man with a maid
depends on the doing of things that are worth while." The speaker
plopped joyfully into the pool, and Vane savagely beheaded a flower
with his stick.

"C-r-rick, C-r-rick," went the old frog, who had come up for a
breather, and Vane threw a stone at it. Try as he would he could not
check a thought which rioted through his brain, and made his heart
pound like a mad thing. Supposing--just supposing. . . .

"Then why did she go up North so suddenly," jeered the frog. "Without
even leaving you a line? She's just been amusing you and herself in
her professional capacity."

Vane swore gently and rose to his feet. "You're perfectly right, my
friend," he remarked; "perfectly right. She's just an ordinary common
or garden flirt, and