Cathcart; the former obviously older than when he went away, gaunt and
worn, pale beneath his bronze, showing unmistakable signs of the effects
of a severe wound and subsequent fever. "Too interesting for words," said
the Duchess of Meldrum to Lady Ingleby, recounting her first sight of
him. "If only I were fifty years younger than I am, I would marry the
dear boy immediately, take him down to Overdene, and nurse him back to
health and strength. Oh, you need not look incredulous, my dear Myra! I
always mean what I say, as you very well know."

But Lady Ingleby denied all suspicion of incredulity, and merely
suggested languidly, that--bar the matrimonial suggestion--the programme
was an excellent one, and might well be carried out. Young Ronald being
of the same opinion, he was soon installed at Overdene, and had what he
afterwards described as _the_ time of his life, being pampered, spoiled,
and petted by the dear old duchess, and never allowing her to suspect
that one of the chief attractions of Overdene lay in the fact that it was
within easy motoring distance of Shenstone Park.

Billy returned as young, as inconsequent, as irrepressible as ever. And
yet in him also, Myra was conscious of a subtle change, for which she,
all too readily, found a reason, far removed from the real one.

The fact was this. Both young men, in their romantic devotion to her, had
yet been true to their own manhood, and loyal, at heart, to Lord Ingleby.
But their loyalty had always been with effort. Therefore, when--the
strain relaxed--they met her again, they were intensely conscious of her
freedom and of their own resultant liberty. This produced in them, when
with her, a restraint and shyness which Myra naturally construed into a
confirmation of her own suspicions. She, having never found it the
smallest effort to remember she was Michael's, and to be faithful in
every thought to him, was quite unconscious of her liberty. There having
been no strain in remaining true to the instincts of her own pure,
honest, honourable nature, there was no tension to relax.

So it very naturally came to pass that when one day Ronald Ingram had sat
long with her, silently studying his boots, his strong face tense and
miserable, every now and then looking furtively at her, then, as his eyes
met the calm friendliness of hers, dropping them again to the
floor:--"Poor Ronnie," she mused, "with his 'important career' before
him. Undoubtedly it was he who did