them
and made them feel awkward and stiff. When each is held apart from
the other by fate, or will, or circumstance, the spell is a stupefying
thing, deadening even the clearness of sight and wit.

"I must slink back now," Betty said, rising. "Will you slink back with
me to give me countenance? I have greatly liked Red Godwyn."

So it occurred that when Nigel Anstruthers saw them again it was as they
crossed the lawn together, and people looked up from ices and cups of
tea to follow their slow progress with questioning or approving eyes.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE TIDAL WAVE

There was only one man to speak to, and it being the nature of the
beast--so he harshly put it to himself--to be absolutely impelled to
speech at such times, Mount Dunstan laid bare his breast to him, tearing
aside all the coverings pride would have folded about him. The man was,
of course, Penzance, and the laying bare was done the evening after the
story of Red Godwyn had been told in the laurel walk.

They had driven home together in a profound silence, the elder man as
deep in thought as the younger one. Penzance was thinking that there
was a calmness in having reached sixty and in knowing that the pain and
hunger of earlier years would not tear one again. And yet, he himself
was not untorn by that which shook the man for whom his affection had
grown year by year. It was evidently very bad--very bad, indeed. He
wondered if he would speak of it, and wished he would, not because he
himself had much to say in answer, but because he knew that speech would
be better than hard silence.

"Stay with me to-night," Mount Dunstan said, as they drove through the
avenue to the house. "I want you to dine with me and sit and talk late.
I am not sleeping well."

They often dined together, and the vicar not infrequently slept at the
Mount for mere companionship's sake. Sometimes they read, sometimes went
over accounts, planned economies, and balanced expenditures. A chamber
still called the Chaplain's room was always kept in readiness. It had
been used in long past days, when a household chaplain had sat below
the salt and left his patron's table before the sweets were served.
They dined together this night almost as silently as they had driven
homeward, and after the meal they went and sat alone in the library.

The huge room was never more than dimly lighted, and the far-off corners
seemed more darkling than usual in the insufficient illumination of th