and she
believed Bruce now. She was too sensible to ask him never to write a
line, never to telephone, never to do anything else; besides, it was
beneath her dignity to go into these details, and common-sense told her
that one or the other must write or communicate if the thing was to be
stopped. If Miss Townsend wrote to him to the club, he would have to
answer. Bruce meant not to see her again, and that was enough.

'Then you're not cross, Edith--not depressed?'

She gave her sweetest smile. She looked brilliantly happy and
particularly pretty.

'Edith!'

With a violent reaction of remorse, and a sort of tenderness, he tried
to put his arm round her. She moved away.

'Don't you forgive me, Edith, for anything I've done that you don't
like?'

'Yes, I _entirely_ forgive you. The incident is closed.'

'Really forgive me?'

'Absolutely. And I've had a tiring day and I'm going to sleep. Good
night.'

With a kind little nod she left him standing in the middle of the room
with that air of stupid distinction that he generally assumed when in a
lift with other people, and that came to his rescue at awkward
moments--a dull, aloof, rather haughty expression. But it was no use to
him now.

He had considerable difficulty in refraining from venting his temper on
the poor, dumb furniture; in fact, he did give a kick to a pretty
little writing-table. It made no sound, but its curved shoulder looked
resentful.

'What a day!' said Bruce to himself.

He went to his room, pouting like Archie. But he knew he had got off
cheaply.

CHAPTER XXII

Another Side of Bruce

Ever since his earliest youth, Bruce had always had, at intervals, some
vague, vain, half-hearted entanglement with a woman. The slightest
interest, practically even common civility, shown him by anyone of the
feminine sex between the ages of sixteen and sixty, flattered his
vanity to such an extraordinary extent that he immediately thought
these ladies were in love with him, and it didn't take much more for
him to be in love with them. And yet he didn't really care for women.
With regard to them his point of view was entirely that of vanity, and
in fact he only liked both men or women who made up to him, or who gave
him the impression that they did. Edith was really the only woman for
whom his weak and flickering passion had lingered at all long; and in
addition to that (the first glamour of which had faded) she had a real
hold over him. He felt for