ked up quickly. "Don't you?"

"No; and I could see that Bowen didn't either. He strikes me as the kind
of man who develops slowly, needs a big field, and perhaps makes some
big mistakes, but gets where he wants to in the end. Jove, I wish I
could put him in a book! There's something epic about him--a kind of
epic effrontery."

Undine's pulses beat faster as she listened. Was it not what Moffatt had
always said of himself--that all he needed was time and elbow-room? How
odd that Ralph, who seemed so dreamy and unobservant, should instantly
have reached the same conclusion! But what she wanted to know was the
practical result of their meeting.

"What did you and he talk about when you were smoking?"

"Oh, he got on the Driscoll fight again--gave us some extraordinary
details. The man's a thundering brute, but he's full of observation and
humour. Then, after Bowen joined you, he told me about a new deal he's
gone into--rather a promising scheme, but on the same Titanic scale.
It's just possible, by the way, that we may be able to do something for
him: part of the property he's after is held in our office." He paused,
knowing Undine's indifference to business matters; but the face she
turned to him was alive with interest.

"You mean you might sell the property to him?"

"Well, if the thing comes off. There would be a big commission if we
did." He glanced down on her half ironically. "You'd like that, wouldn't
you?"

She answered with a shade of reproach: "Why do you say that? I haven't
complained."

"Oh, no; but I know I've been a disappointment as a money-maker."

She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes as if in utter weariness
and indifference, and in a moment she felt him bending over her. "What's
the matter? Don't you feel well?"

"I'm a little tired. It's nothing." She pulled her hand away and burst
into tears.

Ralph knelt down by her chair and put his arm about her. It was the
first time he had touched her since the night of the boy's birthday, and
the sense of her softness woke a momentary warmth in his veins.

"What is it, dear? What is it?"

Without turning her head she sobbed out: "You seem to think I'm too
selfish and odious--that I'm just pretending to be ill."

"No, no," he assured her, smoothing back her hair. But she continued
to sob on in a gradual crescendo of despair, till the vehemence of her
weeping began to frighten him, and he drew her to her feet and tried to
persuade her to