d happiness. For she was happier now in
comparison with what she had been. And with that happiness came a great
longing to comfort him, to draw him out of his cold reserve, to turn him
into the eager and almost confidential boy he had been with her. As they
passed the red tennis court and walked towards the end of the garden
which skirted the woods she said:

"I want you to understand something. I know it must have seemed
unfriendly in me to put you off, and then to leave England without
letting you know. But I had a reason which I can't explain."

"Yes?"

"I shall never be able to explain it. But if I could you would realize
at once that my friendship for you was unaltered."

"Well, but you didn't let me know you were back. You did not ask me to
come to see you."

"I did not think you would care to come."

"But--why?"

"I--perhaps you--I don't find it easy now to think that anyone can care
much to be bothered with me."

"Oh--Lady Sellingworth!"

"That really is the truth. Believe it or not, as you like. You see, I am
out of things now."

"You need never be out of things unless you choose."

"Oh, the world goes on and leaves one behind. Don't you remember my
telling you and Beryl once that I was an Edwardian?"

"If that means un-modern I think I prefer it to modernity. I think
perhaps I have an old-fashioned soul."

He was smiling now. The hard look had gone from his eyes; the ice in his
manner had melted. She felt that she was forgiven. And she tried to put
the thought of Camber out of her mind. Beryl was unscrupulous. Perhaps
she had exaggerated. And, in any case, surely she had treated, was
treating, him badly.

She felt that he and she were friends again, that he was glad to be with
her once more. There was really a link of sympathy between them. And
he had been angry because she had gone abroad without telling him. She
thought of his anger and loved it.

That day, after tea, while the music was still going on in Dindie
Ackroyde's drawing-room, they drove back to London together, leaving
their reputations quite comfortably behind them in the hand of the "old
guard."

CHAPTER II

Beryl Van Tuyn found that it was not necessary for her to cross the
ocean on account of her father's sudden death. He had left all his
affairs in excellent order, and the chief part of his fortune was
bequeathed to her. She had always had plenty of money. Now she was rich.
She went into mourning, answered suitably