--" she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him.

As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they
reached the upper lawn alone.

Chapter XVI: Lying to George

But Lucy had developed since the spring. That is to say, she was now
better able to stifle the emotions of which the conventions and the
world disapprove. Though the danger was greater, she was not shaken by
deep sobs. She said to Cecil, "I am not coming in to tea--tell mother--I
must write some letters," and went up to her room. Then she prepared
for action. Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and
our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing that
we shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she must
stifle it.

She sent for Miss Bartlett.

The contest lay not between love and duty. Perhaps there never is such a
contest. It lay between the real and the pretended, and Lucy's first aim
was to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as the memory of the
views grew dim and the words of the book died away, she returned to her
old shibboleth of nerves. She "conquered her breakdown." Tampering with
the truth, she forgot that the truth had ever been. Remembering that she
was engaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused remembrances
of George; he was nothing to her; he never had been anything; he
had behaved abominably; she had never encouraged him. The armour of
falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only
from others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equipped
for battle.

"Something too awful has happened," she began, as soon as her cousin
arrived. "Do you know anything about Miss Lavish's novel?"

Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read the book,
nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart.

"There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know
about that?"

"Dear--?"

"Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside,
and Florence is in the distance."

"My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever."

"There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte,
Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking;
it must be you."

"Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation.

"About that dreadful afternoon in February."

Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest gir