in that case, why did Beryl so genuinely wish me to
accompany them the rest of the way? Well, well. Time would show.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

OPPORTUNITY?

"By the way, what have I done to you, Kenrick?"

We were walking together, Beryl and I, in the garden, just as we had
walked on the evening of my arrival, only that now the shade had nearly
vanished with the fall of leaves. We had not walked together thus alone
since prior to the tragedy, but to-day it happened that Pentridge was
out with Septimus Matterson, and as I had mentioned an intention of
doing something to the garden, Beryl had joined me. We had walked on
thus together, chatting about the piece of work I had in hand, when she
suddenly faced round on me with the above query.

"Done to me?" I echoed rather blankly. "Done to me? What do you mean,
Beryl?"

"Well, why have you avoided me so of late--rather markedly, too?"

Rather markedly? Great heaven! And here I had been priding myself all
this while upon having played my part so well, above all so
unobtrusively. And this was what it had amounted to--that I had avoided
her "rather markedly." But there was no trace of resentment, of temper,
in her tone. It was merely that of one desiring information, and her
great eyes were bent straight and searchingly upon my face.

What was I to say? I became conscious that I was staring stupidly at
her, but if only she could have read my mind! Yet I could hardly read
it myself. All sorts of whirling confused thoughts were chasing each
other through it, as I looked at her standing there, sweet, and cool,
and graceful, and wholly alluring, but--not for me, ah no! not for me.
How could I tell her of the bitter upheaval of the last couple of weeks?
How could I tell her the truth without telling her the whole truth?
How could I tell her that I, a beggared pauper, had been striving to
stifle and live down the love I had been on the point of declaring? It
was too late for that, and, over and above, would not such a declaration
now be simply a cheapening of myself; now that I had assured myself
that, in any event, whatever love she had to give was not for me? What
was I to say? I could not deny that I had avoided her. Her natural
quick-wittedness and woman's instinct were not to be set aside in any so
light a fashion, yet I shrank from laying my own wounds bare.

"Why, don't you see what a lot I've had to do, Beryl?" I said. "Rather
more than usual of