are brutes and idiots," said Fleur stubbornly.

"I think they're poor wretches," said Jon. It was as if they had
quarrelled--and at this supreme and awful moment, with parting visible
out there in that last gap of the willows!

"Well, go and help your poor wretches, and don't think of me."

Jon stood still. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his limbs
trembled. Fleur too had stopped, and was frowning at the river.

"I must believe in things," said Jon with a sort of agony; "we're all
meant to enjoy life."

Fleur laughed. "Yes; and that's what you won't do, if you don't take
care. But perhaps your idea of enjoyment is to make yourself wretched.
There are lots of people like that, of course."

She was pale, her eyes had darkened, her lips had thinned. Was it Fleur
thus staring at the water? Jon had an unreal feeling as if he were
passing through the scene in a book where the lover has to choose between
love and duty. But just then she looked round at him. Never was anything
so intoxicating as that vivacious look. It acted on him exactly as the
tug of a chain acts on a dog--brought him up to her with his tail wagging
and his tongue out.

"Don't let's be silly," she said, "time's too short. Look, Jon, you can
just see where I've got to cross the river. There, round the bend, where
the woods begin."

Jon saw a gable, a chimney or two, a patch of wall through the trees
--and felt his heart sink.

"I mustn't dawdle any more. It's no good going beyond the next hedge, it
gets all open. Let's get on to it and say good-bye."

They went side by side, hand in hand, silently toward the hedge, where
the may-flower, both pink and white, was in full bloom.

"My Club's the 'Talisman,' Stratton Street, Piccadilly. Letters there
will be quite safe, and I'm almost always up once a week."

Jon nodded. His face had become extremely set, his eyes stared straight
before him.

"To-day's the twenty-third of May," said Fleur; "on the ninth of July I
shall be in front of the 'Bacchus and Ariadne' at three o'clock; will
you?"

"I will."

"If you feel as bad as I it's all right. Let those people pass!"

A man and woman airing their children went by strung out in Sunday
fashion.

The last of them passed the wicket gate.

"Domesticity!" said Fleur, and blotted herself against the hawthorn
hedge. The blossom sprayed out above her head, and one pink cluster
brushed her cheek. Jon put up his hand jealously to ke