him. She only saw the dimness in his
eyes as he went on.

"Those few minutes," he said, "I cannot speak of. Then there came, by
some hateful chance, a cloud over my happiness. I remembered the
warnings with which I had been pestered; the fool in me spoke whilst the
man was silent. I demanded a pledge from her. I asked her when she
would marry me. She bade me be patient, hinted at an obstacle--some day
I should know everything. The fool in me raved. I demanded her promise
to marry me as a token of her sincerity. Then she answered me as I
deserved. If I did not trust her I might go--and, God help me, I went."

Again the bitter silence, and again the feathers swelled and waved. The
band was playing softly, waltz music now. The Duchess, who was a
motherly woman, and loved young men, felt her own eyes grow dim.

"After all," she said, "you must not blame yourself too much. Emily had
her faults like other women. She was a little vain, a little imperious,
not always wise. She should have told you everything."

Douglas rose and made his adieux.

"She trusted me once, Duchess, when everything looked against me, and
never even deigned to ask for an explanation. She was a woman. When my
turn came I was a coward."

CHAPTER XXXIX

A JOURNEY--AND A WEDDING

A brilliant and scathing criticism of a successful society play, signed
by Douglas in full, and admitted to the columns of a periodical whose
standing was unique, followed close upon the issue of his novel. His
articles to the Courier were as vivid and characteristic as ever--he had
passed with scarcely an effort after his initial success into the front
ranks of contemporary writers. Of his private sorrows the world knew
nothing, and he carried himself always with an impenetrable front. Yet
after that night he felt that a break in his life was imperative--was a
necessary condition indeed of his sanity. The literary and society
papers chronicled his retirement into the wilds of Devonshire, where he
was reported to be studying the plot of his next novel. As a matter of
fact he had embarked upon a longer journey.

From Paris, after hours of indecision, he wired to Emily de Reuss at
Molchavano.

"May I come to you?--DOUGLAS."

For a week he waited restlessly, a week of weary sightseeing and
abortive attempts at holiday making. No answer came. On the eighth day
he moved on to Vienna and sent another telegram.

"I am coming to you.--DOUGLAS."

Still no reply. He wai