ion to himself which she did not pretend to understand. It
was James and no other, simply because any other was unthinkable. Such
things were not done. Jimmy Urquhart--and what other could she imagine
it?--was out of the question. She had finally brushed him out as a
girl flecks the mirror in a cotillon. It was James; but why he had
been so moved, how moved, how so lightly satisfied, how his conduct at
other times could be fitted in--really, it didn't matter two straws.
It meant nothing but a moment's silliness, it led to nothing, it
mended nothing--and it broke nothing. Her soul was her own, her heart
was her own. It was amiable of him, she dared say, but had become
rather a bore. She conceived of a time at hand when she might have to
be careful that he shouldn't. But just now she wouldn't make a fuss.
Anything but that. He was within his rights, she supposed; and let it
rest at that. So arrayed, she faced him, and, to let nothing be
omitted on her part, she herself apologised for what had been his
absurd fault, and so won as much from him as he could ever have given
anybody. As for Francis Lingen--she had not once given him a thought.

Now, however, James away to his Bishops, she arrayed herself anew, and
went out, _fraiche et dispose_, into the Park, intending that she
should see Urquhart. And so she did. He was on horseback and
dismounted the moment he saw her. He was glad to see her, she could
tell, but did not insist upon his gladness. He admired her, she could
see, but took his admiration as a matter of course. She wore
champagne-colour. She had snakeskin shoes, a black hat. She was
excited, and had colour; her eyes shone.

"Well," he said, "here you are then. That's a good thing. I began to
give you up."

"How did you know--?" She stopped, and bit her lip.

"I didn't. But I'm very glad to see you. You look very well. Where are
you going?"

She nodded her direction. "Tulips. Just over there. I always
pilgrimise them."

"All right. Let us pilgrimise them. Tulips are like a drug. A little
is exquisite, and you are led on. Excess brings no more enchantment,
only nausea. You buy a million and plant your woodland, and the result
is horror. A hundred would have been heavenly. That's what I find."

She had mockery in her look, gleams of it shot with happiness to be
there. "Is that what you've done at Martley? I shan't praise you when
I see it. I hate too-muchness."

"So do I, but always too late. I ought to le