hear that since you saw him he
has become famous. You have been so long away that you may not have
heard of the great book he has written, "Illusion."'

'I have read it,' said Vincent shortly. 'I did not know he wrote it.'

'He did write it,' said Mabel. 'But for that we might never have known
one another. He has to admit that, even though he does try to run down
his work sometimes, and insist that it has been very much overrated!'

'He says so, does he?' Vincent replied. 'Yes, I can quite understand
that.'

Some intonation in his voice struck Mabel's ear. 'Perhaps you agree
with him?' she retorted jealously.

Holroyd laughed harshly. 'No, indeed,' he said, 'I should be the last
man in the world to do that. I only meant I could understand your
husband taking that view. I read the book with intense interest, I
assure you.'

'You don't speak as if you quite meant me to believe that,' she said.
'I'm afraid the book was not practical enough to please you, Vincent.
Ceylon seems to have hardened you.'

'Very possibly,' he replied; and then followed a short silence, during
which Mabel was thinking that he had certainly altered--hardly for the
better, and Holroyd was wondering how much longer he would have to
bear this. He was afraid of himself, feeling the danger of a violent
outburst which might reveal her delusion with a too brutal plainness.
She must know all some time, but not there--not then.

He had finally mastered any rebellious impulses, however, as Mabel,
who had been anxiously watching the bridge for some time, went to meet
someone with a glad cry of relief. He heard her making some rapid
explanations, and then she returned, followed by Mark Ashburn.

Mabel's greeting told the wretched Mark that the blow had not fallen
yet. Vincent evidently was determined to spare neither of them. Let
him strike now, then; the less delay the better.

He walked up to the man who was his executioner with a dull, dogged
expectation of what was coming. He tried to keep himself straight, but
he felt that his head was shaking as if with palsy, and he was
grateful that the dusk hid his face. 'Here is Mark, at last,' said
Mabel. 'He will tell you himself that he at least has not forgotten.'

But Mark said nothing; he did not even put out his hand. He stood
silently waiting for the other to speak. Vincent was silent, too, for
a time, looking at him fixedly. This was how they had met, then. He
had pictured that meeting many time