k to write--that was all. And--and it's very kind of
you to come and look me up, and I wish I could ask you to come in,
but---- And it's nice of you to take an interest in an old friend--you
said you would, didn't you, in the letter--and--I've taken the advice
you gave me."

"You mean you've fallen in love with some one else."

"You remember what you said in your letter."

"Some one nicer and worthier, I said," returned Camilla blankly, "but I
never thought---- And is she?"

"Of course she seems so to me," said he, smiling at her to express
friendly feeling.

"Then--good-bye--I wish you the best of good fortune."

"You said that in your letter, too," said he. "Good-bye."

"Who is she?"

"I mustn't tell even you that, until I have told her," he smiled again.

"Then good-bye," said Camilla shortly; "forgive me for troubling you so
unnecessarily."

He found himself standing by his door--and Camilla on her bicycle sped
down the road, choking with tears of anger and mortification and deep
disappointment. Because she knew now that she loved him as much as it
was in her to love any one, and because she, who had humbled so many,
had now at last humbled herself--and to no purpose.

Maurice Brent left his door open and wandered down across his five
acres, filled with amazement. Camilla herself had not been more deeply
astonished at the words he had spoken than he had been. A moment before
he had not even thought that he was in love, much less contemplated any
confession of it: and now seemingly without his will he stood committed
to this statement. Was it true, or had he only said it to defend himself
against those advances of hers in which he merely saw a new trap? He had
said it in defence--yes--but it was true, for all that; this was the
wonderful part of it. And so he walked in the wilderness, lost in
wonder; and as he walked he noted the bicycles that passed his
door--along his unfrequented road, by ones and twos and threes--for this
was a Saturday, and the lower road was still lying cold and hidden under
its load of chalk, and none might pass that way. This road was hot and
dusty, and folk went along it continually. He strolled to his ugly iron
gate and looked over, idly. Perhaps, some day, she would come that way
again--she would surely stop--especially if he were at the gate--and
perhaps stay and talk a little. As if in mocking answer to the new-born
thought came a flash of blue along the road; Diana Redmayne