on life, was speeding up from Cornwall, Lady Ingleby
sat beneath the scarlet chestnuts, watching Ronald and Billy play
tennis.

They had entered for a tournament, and discovered that they required
constant practice such as, apparently, could only be obtained at
Shenstone. In reality they came over so frequently in honest-hearted
trouble and anxiety over their friend, of whose unexpected sorrow they
chanced to be the sole confidants. Lady Ingleby refused herself to all
other visitors. In the trying uncertainty of these few weeks while Jim
Airth was still in England, she dreaded questions or comments. To Jane
Dalmain she had written the whole truth. The Dalmains were at Worcester,
attending a musical festival in that noblest of English cathedrals; but
they expected soon to return to Overdene, when Jane had promised to come
to her.

Meanwhile Ronald and Billy turned up often, doing their valiant best to
be cheerful; but Myra's fragile look, and large pathetic eyes, alarmed
and horrified them. Obviously things had gone more hopelessly wrong than
they had anticipated. They had known at once that Airth would not marry
Lady Ingleby; but it had never occurred to them that Lady Ingleby would
still wish to marry Airth. Ronald stoutly denied that this was the case;
but Billy affirmed it, though refusing to give reasons.

Ronald had never succeeded in extorting from Billy one word of what had
taken place when he had told Lady Ingleby that Jim Airth was the man.

"If you wanted to know how she took it, you should have told her
yourself," said Billy. "And it will be a saving of useless trouble, Ron,
if you never ask me again."

Thus the days went by; and, though she always seemed gently pleased to
see them both, no possible opening had been given to Ronald for assuming
the role of manly comforter.

"I shall give it up," said Ronnie at last, in bitterness of spirit; "I
tell you, I shall give it up; and marry the duchess!"

"Don't be profane," counselled Billy. "It would be more to the point to
find Airth, and explain to him, in carefully chosen language, that
letting Lady Ingleby die of a broken heart will not atone for blowing up
her husband. I always knew our news would make no difference, from the
moment I saw her go quite pink when she told us his name. She never went
pink over Ingleby, you bet! I didn't know they could do it, after
twenty."

"Much you know, then!" ejaculated Ronnie, scornfully. "I've seen the
duchess go