en we were adventuring for
the advantage of other people. I've done nothing lately that wasn't for
myself. I want some one to live for, so that I can forget myself. I've
been thinking----"

The waiter presented the bill. Tabs scarcely knew whether to curse or
bless. He had been approaching the danger-mark; nevertheless, he wasn't
at all sure that he was grateful for the interruption. His heart cried
out to him to risk humiliation by one last act of daring. Experience
warned him that it is the sins of precaution--the follies left
uncommitted--that are most regretted by men of seventy.

She rose as he was gathering up his change. The purpose that had brought
them to London was ended. There was no further reason for their being
together. If they were to prolong their companionship, a new excuse must
be invented. He saw by the tentative manner in which she waited, that
she also had realized that. He became perturbed lest she might dismiss
him. Speaking hurriedly to forestall her, he said, "I suppose we had
better make sure of Terry by hunting her up at Mulberry Tree Court."

She barely nodded. Perhaps she thought, now that Braithwaite had been
eliminated as a rival, that this making sure of Terry betokened a
rekindling of the old infatuation. A constraint grew up between them. It
was not until they were standing on the top of the hotel steps, waiting
for her car, that he ventured to correct the wrong impression. "Funny
about Terry! If it hadn't been for her, we might never have been
friends. The first day of my home-coming she drew my attention to you;
it was too late--you had passed. You were driving with the Queen in the
Park. I remember what Terry said. She called you Di and spoke of you as
the most beautiful woman in England."

She gave no sign that she had heard. As though she were unescorted, she
passed before him down the steps. But the moment they were seated in the
car, she turned to him. She looked her full age. Her face was pale with
more than weariness. He noticed the threads of gray in her hair. Ever
since he had seen Ann in her flushed shy exaltation, he had felt more
keenly the pathos of Lady Dawn. It was a pathos that found an echo in
his heart--the pathos of approaching separation. What purpose did it
serve her to be beautiful, if she had no man of her own to admire her?

"You were on the verge of telling me something, when the waiter
interrupted," she prompted. "It began like a confession. You'd been