was immensely kind to her, almost oppressively kind. He could never
be otherwise to any living creature--in personal contact, but without
that he was careless, indifferent, forgetful, although when she saw him
again it was as though he had never been away. They were considered a
charming and most devoted couple, and their domestic felicity helped
him in his success.

Much talk in the newspapers, many committees--but Clara felt that
merely another Charles was being created to dance between her and her
desire. This was too far from what she wanted, and she could not see
how it could lead to it; there was altogether too much talk. What he
said was very fine but it merely gathered a rather flabby set of people
round him--and most exasperatingly he liked it and them... 'Such nice
people.'

'That is all very well,' said Clara, 'but we are spending far more than
there is any possibility of your making.'

'There are rich men interested,' said Charles.

'But until you make money, they won't give you any.'

Hard sense was always too much for him, and he retired puzzled and
rather pained from the argument.

Because she was beautiful she attracted many men, many flatterers, but
as they penetrated her graciousness, they came upon the hard granite of
her will and were baffled, unpleasantly disturbed, and used to leave
her, darting angry glances at the blissful Charles, who was sublimely
unconscious of criticism in those whom he approached. He accepted them
as they were or seemed to be and expected the like from them. He was
too busy, too eager, to question or to look for hidden motives in those
who supported him, and that he was concealing anything or had anything
to conceal never crossed his mind! He had other things to think of,
always new things, new plans, new schemes, and he was fundamentally not
interested in himself. A charming face, a lovely cloud in the sky, the
scent of a flower, a glass of good wine could give him such delight as
made him beam upon the world and find all things good. It was always a
trifle which sent him soaring like a singing lark, always a trifle that
could lift him from the depths of depression. Great emotion he did not
seem to need, though the concentrated emotion with which he hurled
himself at his work was tremendous. Happy is the people that has no
history. For all that he was aware of, Charles had no history. He was
born again every morning, and he could not realise that the wo