ou think
of my rooms. Of course, I haven't finished furnishing yet, but they're
nice, aren't they?"

He looked round approvingly. Everything was very simple but dainty and
comfortable. A vase of beautiful chrysanthemums stood upon her
writing-table, amber and pink and drooping white, they seemed to diffuse
an almost illuminating glow. A tiny tea-table was drawn up before a
bright fire. As he sat down by her side there swept over him once more
a desire, keen, passionate, to escape from the turmoil of the last few
months. Here at least was rest. The very homeliness of the little
scene awoke in him the domestic instinct--heritage of his middle-class
ancestors. Cicely chattered gaily to him. She was very charming in her
dark red dress, and she had so much to say about this sudden fame which
had come to him--so well deserved, so brilliantly won. Her face was
aglow with pleasure, a wave of tenderness swept over him. He felt that
it would be very pleasant to take her into his arms, to forget, with her
little hands in his, those days of madness when he had yielded himself
up to wild and passionate dreams of things impossible. Better to bury
them, to take such measure of happiness as would at least ensure
content. Life would surely be a sweeter and an easier thing lived out
to the light music of the violins, than played to the deep storm
throbbings of the great orchestra. So he broke in upon her laughing
congratulations and faced her gravely.

"You had my letter, Cicely?" Her face changed, her eyes sought his
nervously. "Yes." "You have thought about it?" "Of nothing else," she
answered. "Well?"

She leaned over towards him. "It made me at first very angry," she
said. He glanced at her quickly. She held up her hand.

"Now I am going to explain," she said. "You see, Douglas, when you
asked me to be your wife I believed that you cared for me,
well--altogether--and that you wanted it very much indeed. If I had
known then what your letter has since told me, what do you think that I
should have said to you?"

"I do want it very much," he repeated softly, "and I have always cared
for you."

"I believe that you have," she answered, "but in the same way that I
have always cared for you. You do not care for me as you do for Emily
de Reuss, nor do you want me so much as the woman whom you cannot have.
I want to be honest, dear. Perhaps if I loved you and felt that there
was no one else in this world whom I could care for, this mig