d a mauve hat covered with blue
convolvuli, but in her extraordinary self-absorption and intentness of
thought there was something uncivilised about her. Her clothes were
unsuited to her, and she walked as if quite alone in a vast plain.

Her answer to Theo? What was it to be? Should she find it here, in
Sloane Street? How could she decide, not having the remotest idea what
effect her decision would have on Joyselle? Could she live without him?
As things now stood, he might, on her announcement that she was willing
to marry Theo in, say, three months' time, fly to the ends of the earth
that he might hide his own suffering, or--he might have the strength to
endure it in silence for his son's sake.

If on the other hand she said no, that she could not marry his son,
would he look on her decision as perfidy, and refuse to see her ever
again, or--A man in a hansom swore softly with relief as she just
escaped being knocked down by his horse, and quite unconscious of her
danger, hurried on, her head bent.

Or--would he then--allow himself to love her--to love her frankly, so
far as she was concerned?

At the corner of Sloane Square a man coming towards her saw her
trance-like condition, and stopping short, forced her almost to run into
his arms. "I beg your pardon," she began mechanically, and then her face
changed. "You, Gerald! How d'ye do?"

She had not seen him for days, and then it had been in the evening, so
that now in the strong afternoon sun she saw with a momentary shock that
he looked very ill indeed.

"Seedy?" she asked, some unanalysed feeling of understanding urging her
to an unusual gentleness of tone.

"Yes. What is wrong with you, Brigit?"

She had never forgiven him the affair of the evening when Tommy had
walked in his sleep, but her mind was too full of her own trouble to
have much room for resentment, and his value as an enemy had gone down.
He looked too broken and ill to be dangerous.

"I--I'm all right," she returned.

"Where are you walking so fast?"

"I'm just walking."

"I see. A race with the demons," he said in a curious, hurried voice. "I
do it, too. Everyone does, it seems. I just met Joyselle tearing out
Chelseaward--the father, I mean."

She looked up at him, her face clearing. "Ah!"

"Yes. I like him. He is a great artist and--a whole man. No disrespect
to your young man, my dear," he added, with a dismal attempt of his old
jaunty manner.

"Yes; he is 'a whole man.' Well,