e enjoyed) to regard himself as a victim. Somehow
the ravage of the question was checked by the Master's radiance. It was
as fine in its way as Marian Fancourt's, it denoted the happy human
being; but also it represented to Paul Overt that the author of
"Shadowmere" had now definitely ceased to count--ceased to count as a
writer. As he smiled a welcome across the place he was almost banal, was
almost smug. Paul fancied that for a moment he hesitated to make a
movement, as if for all the world he _had_ his bad conscience; then they
had already met in the middle of the room and had shaken
hands--expressively, cordially on St. George's part. With which they had
passed back together to where the elder man had been standing, while St.
George said: "I hope you're never going away again. I've been dining
here; the General told me." He was handsome, he was young, he looked as
if he had still a great fund of life. He bent the friendliest, most
unconfessing eyes on his disciple of a couple of years before; asked him
about everything, his health, his plans, his late occupations, the new
book. "When will it be out--soon, soon, I hope? Splendid, eh? That's
right; you're a comfort, you're a luxury! I've read you all over again
these last six months." Paul waited to see if he would tell him what the
General had told him in the afternoon and what Miss Fancourt, verbally at
least, of course hadn't. But as it didn't come out he at last put the
question.

"Is it true, the great news I hear--that you're to be married?"

"Ah you have heard it then?"

"Didn't the General tell you?" Paul asked.

The Master's face was wonderful. "Tell me what?"

"That he mentioned it to me this afternoon?"

"My dear fellow, I don't remember. We've been in the midst of people.
I'm sorry, in that case, that I lose the pleasure, myself, of announcing
to you a fact that touches me so nearly. It _is_ a fact, strange as it
may appear. It has only just become one. Isn't it ridiculous?" St.
George made this speech without confusion, but on the other hand, so far
as our friend could judge, without latent impudence. It struck his
interlocutor that, to talk so comfortably and coolly, he must simply have
forgotten what had passed between them. His next words, however, showed
he hadn't, and they produced, as an appeal to Paul's own memory, an
effect which would have been ludicrous if it hadn't been cruel. "Do you
recall the talk we had at my ho