feeling,
though she herself was unaware of it, which her own care and tenderness
for others often afforded to those round whom she threw the sheltering
mantle of her kindness.

Perhaps because he was so near, John Coxeter remained in her thoughts.
Almost alone of those human beings with whom life brought her in
contact, he made no demand on her sympathy, and very little on her time.
In fact, his first offer of marriage had taken her so much by surprise
as to strike her as slightly absurd; she had also felt it, at the time,
to be an offence, for she had given him no right to encroach on the
inner shrine of her being.

Trying to account for what he had done, she had supposed that John
Coxeter, being a man who evidently ordered his life according to some
kind of system, had believed himself ripe for the honourable estate of
marriage, and had chosen her as being "suitable."

When writing her cold letter of refusal, she had expected to hear within
a few weeks of his engagement to some "nice" girl. But time had gone by
and nothing of the sort had happened. Coxeter's second offer, conveyed,
as had been the first, in a formal letter, had found her in a very
different mood, for it had followed very closely on that done by her of
which he, John Coxeter, had so greatly disapproved. She had been touched
this second time and not at all offended, and gradually they had become
friends. It was after his second offer that Nan began making use of him,
not so much for herself as on behalf of other people.

Nan Archdale led her life without reference to what those about her
considered appropriate or desirable; and years had gone by since the
boldest busybody among them would have ventured a word of rebuke. Her
social background was composed of happy, prosperous people. They had but
little to do with her, however, save when by some amazing mischance
things went wrong with them; when all went well they were apt to forget
Nan Archdale. But John Coxeter, though essentially one of them by birth
and instinct, and though it had been through them that she had first met
him, never forgot her.

Yet though they had become, in a sense, intimate, he made on her none of
those demands which endear a man to a woman. Living up on a pleasant
tableland of self-approval, he never touched the heights or depths which
go to form the relief map of most human beings' lives. He always did his
duty and generally enjoyed doing it, and he had no patience, only
c