beyond me in this life, but you, who know all things, will arrange that
we shall be together even when we die.'

The carriage stopped at the entrance of the drive, and the Squire's
thoughts changed. Twenty years ago he would have beaten Barter running
down that lane. Barter was only forty-five. To give him fourteen years
and a beating was a bit too much to expect: He felt a strange irritation
with Barter--the fellow had cut a very good figure! He had shirked
nothing. Elliman was too strong! Homocea was the thing. Margery would
have to rub him! And suddenly, as though springing naturally from the
name of his wife, George came into Mr. Pendyce's mind, and the respite
that he had enjoyed from care was over. But the spaniel John, who
scented home, began singing feebly for the brougham to stop, and beating
a careless tail against his master's boot.

It was very stiffly, with frowning brows and a shaking under-lip, that
the Squire descended from the brougham, and began sorely to mount the
staircase to his wife's room.

CHAPTER VI

THE PARK

There comes a day each year in May when Hyde Park is possessed. A cool
wind swings the leaves; a hot sun glistens on Long Water, on every bough,
on every blade of grass. The birds sing their small hearts out, the band
plays its gayest tunes, the white clouds race in the high blue heaven.
Exactly why and how this day differs from those that came before and
those that will come after, cannot be told; it is as though the Park
said: 'To-day I live; the Past is past. I care not for the Future!'

And on this day they who chance in the Park cannot escape some measure of
possession. Their steps quicken, their skirts swing, their sticks
flourish, even their eyes brighten--those eyes so dulled with looking at
the streets; and each one, if he has a Love, thinks of her, and here and
there among the wandering throng he has her with him. To these the Park
and all sweet-blooded mortals in it nod and smile.

There had been a meeting that afternoon at Lady Maiden's in Prince's Gate
to consider the position of the working-class woman. It had provided a
somewhat heated discussion, for a person had got up and proved almost
incontestably that the working-class woman had no position whatsoever.

Gregory Vigil and Mrs. Shortman had left this meeting together, and,
crossing the Serpentine, struck a line over the grass.

"Mrs. Shortman," said Gregory, "don't you think we're all a litt