Althea.'

'Well?' Helen questioned.

He faced her again, a little quizzical, a little confused and at a loss.
'I suppose it's Althea herself.'

'Oh!' said Helen. She said it with a perceptible, though very mild
change of tone; but Gerald, in his preoccupation, did not notice the
change.

'You've seen her several times since she came back?' he asked.

'Yes, twice; I lunched with her and these American friends of hers
yesterday,' said Helen.

'Well, I've seen her three times,' said Gerald. 'I went to her, as you
know, directly I got back to London on Saturday; I cut my visit at the
Fanshawes two days shorter on purpose. I saw her on Sunday, and I'm just
come from her now. No one could say that I didn't show her every
attention, could they?' It hardly seemed a question, and Helen did not
answer it. 'I don't think she's quite pleased with me,' Gerald then
brought out.

Still silent, Helen looked at him thoughtfully, but her gaze gave him no
clue.

'Can you imagine why not?' he asked.

She reflected, then she said that she couldn't.

'Well,' said Gerald, 'I think it's because I didn't go to meet her at
Liverpool; from something she said, I think it's that. But I never
dreamed she'd mind, you know. And, really, I ask you, Helen, is it
reasonable to expect a man to give up a long-standing engagement and
take that dreary journey up to that dreary place--I've never seen the
Liverpool docks, but I can imagine them at six o'clock in the
morning--is it reasonable, I say, to expect that of any man? It wasn't
as if I wasn't to see her the next day.'

Again Helen carefully considered. 'I suppose she found the docks very
dreary--at six o'clock,' she suggested.

'But surely that's not a reason for wanting me to find them dreary too,'
Gerald laughed rather impatiently. 'I'd have had to go up to Liverpool
on Thursday and spend the night there; do you realise that?'

Helen went on with the theme of the docks: 'I suppose she wouldn't have
found them so dreary if you'd been on them; and I suppose she expected
you not to find them dreary for the same reason.'

Gerald contemplated this lucid statement of the case. 'Has she talked to
you about it?' he asked.

'Not a word. Althea is very proud. If you have hurt her it is the last
thing that she would talk about.'

'I know she's proud and romantic, and a perfect dear, of course; but do
you really think it a ground for complaint? I mean--would you have felt
hurt in a similar