own the parapet in an absurd distress,
curtseying and bobbing and clucking; his long tail swung ponderously
back and forth as he turned and turned again. Then with a flap and swish
he launched himself upon the air and sailed magnificently earthward,
with a recovered dignity. But he had left a trophy. Ivor had his
feather, a long-lashed eye of purple and green, of blue and gold. He
handed it to his companion.

"An angel's feather," he said.

Mary looked at it for a moment, gravely and intently. Her purple pyjamas
clothed her with an ampleness that hid the lines of her body; she looked
like some large, comfortable, unjointed toy, a sort of Teddy-bear--but
a Teddy bear with an angel's head, pink cheeks, and hair like a bell
of gold. An angel's face, the feather of an angel's wing...Somehow the
whole atmosphere of this sunrise was rather angelic.

"It's extraordinary to think of sexual selection," she said at last,
looking up from her contemplation of the miraculous feather.

"Extraordinary!" Ivor echoed. "I select you, you select me. What luck!"

He put his arm round her shoulders and they stood looking eastward. The
first sunlight had begun to warm and colour the pale light of the dawn.
Mauve pyjamas and white pyjamas; they were a young and charming couple.
The rising sun touched their faces. It was all extremely symbolic;
but then, if you choose to think so, nothing in this world is not
symbolical. Profound and beautiful truth!

"I must be getting back to my tower," said Ivor at last.

"Already?"

"I'm afraid so. The varletry will soon be up and about."

"Ivor..." There was a prolonged and silent farewell.

"And now," said Ivor, "I repeat my tight-rope stunt."

Mary threw her arms round his neck. "You mustn't, Ivor. It's dangerous.
Please."

He had to yield at last to her entreaties. "All right," he said, "I'll
go down through the house and up at the other end."

He vanished through the trap door into the darkness that still lurked
within the shuttered house. A minute later he had reappeared on the
farther tower; he waved his hand, and then sank down, out of sight,
behind the parapet. From below, in the house, came the thin wasp-like
buzzing of an alarum-clock. He had gone back just in time.

CHAPTER XX.

Ivor was gone. Lounging behind the wind-screen in his yellow sedan he
was whirling across rural England. Social and amorous engagements of the
most urgent character called him from hall to baronial