hine the terrors of last night seemed a
thing far removed from us. We sat at breakfast in our little
sitting-room, and as though by common though unspoken consent we treated
the whole affair as a gigantic joke. We ignored its darker aspect. We
spoke of it as an "opera-bouffe" attempt never likely to be
repeated--the hare-brained scheme of a mad foreigner, over anxious to
earn the favour of his mistress. But beneath all our light talk was an
undernote of seriousness. I think that Mabane and I, at any rate,
realized perhaps for the first time that the situation, so far as Isobel
was concerned, was fast becoming an impossible one.

After breakfast we all strolled out into the garden. Isobel, with her
hands full of flowers, flitted in and out amongst the rose-bushes,
laughing and talking with all the invincible gaiety of light-hearted
youth, and Arthur hung all the while about her, his eyes following her
every movement, telling her all the while by every action and look--if
indeed the time had come for her to discern such things--all that our
compact forbade him to utter. Presently I slipped away, and shutting
myself up in the tiny room where I worked, drew out my papers. In a few
minutes I had made a start. I passed with a little unconscious sigh of
relief into the detachment which was fast becoming the one luxury of my
life.

An hour may have passed, perhaps more, when I was interrupted. I heard
the door softly opened, and light footsteps crossed the room to my side.
Isobel's hand rested on my shoulder, and she looked down at my work.

"Arnold," she exclaimed, "how dare you! You promised to read your story
when you had finished six chapters, and you are working on chapter
twenty now!"

Her long white forefinger pointed accusingly to the heading of my last
page. Then I realized with a sudden flash of apprehension why I had not
kept my promise--why I could never keep it. The story which flowed so
smoothly from my pen was a record of my own emotions, my own sufferings.
Even her name had usurped the name of my heroine, and stared up at me
from the half-finished page. It was my own story which was written
there, my own unhappiness which throbbed through every word and
sentence. With a little nervous gesture I covered over the open sheets.
I rose hastily to my feet, and I drew her away from the table.

"Another time, Isobel," I said. "It is too glorious a day to spend
indoors, and Arthur has taken holiday too. Tell me, wha