rather, it was Susy that he could not help thinking of, on whatever
train of thought he set out.

Again and again he fancied he had established a truce with the past: had
come to terms--the terms of defeat and failure with that bright enemy
called happiness. And, in truth, he had reached the point of definitely
knowing that he could never return to the kind of life that he and Susy
had embarked on. It had been the tragedy, of their relation that loving
her roused in him ideals she could never satisfy. He had fallen in
love with her because she was, like himself, amused, unprejudiced and
disenchanted; and he could not go on loving her unless she ceased to
be all these things. From that circle there was no issue, and in it he
desperately revolved.

If he had not heard such persistent rumours of her re-marriage to Lord
Altringham he might have tried to see her again; but, aware of the
danger and the hopelessness of a meeting, he was, on the whole, glad to
have a reason for avoiding it. Such, at least, he honestly supposed to
be his state of mind until he found himself, as on this occasion, free
to follow out his thought to its end. That end, invariably, was Susy;
not the bundle of qualities and defects into which his critical
spirit had tried to sort her out, but the soft blur of identity, of
personality, of eyes, hair, mouth, laugh, tricks of speech and gesture,
that were all so solely and profoundly her own, and yet so mysteriously
independent of what she might do, say, think, in crucial circumstances.
He remembered her once saying to him: "After all, you were right
when you wanted me to be your mistress," and the indignant stare of
incredulity with which he had answered her. Yet in these hours it
was the palpable image of her that clung closest, till, as invariably
happened, his vision came full circle, and feeling her on his breast he
wanted her also in his soul.

Well--such all-encompassing loves were the rarest of human experiences;
he smiled at his presumption in wanting no other. Wearily he turned, and
tramped homeward through the winter twilight....

At the door of the hotel he ran across the Prince of Teutoburg's
aide-de-camp. They had not met for some days, and Nick had a vague
feeling that if the Prince's matrimonial designs took definite shape he
himself was not likely, after all, to be their chosen exponent. He
had surprised, now and then, a certain distrustful coldness under the
Princess Mother's cordi