, and Robin's helping me."

"Already!" said Dion, smiling, yet touched by her serious face.

"Yes. He's an unconscious agent. Poor old Mr. Thrush has never learnt
the lesson of our dear Greek tombs: farewell! He hasn't been able to say
that simply and beautifully, leaving all in other hands. And so he's the
poor old wreck we know. I want to get him out of it if I can. He came
into my life on a night of destiny too."

But she explained nothing more. And she left Dion wondering just how she
would receive a sorrow such as had overtaken Mr. Thrush. Would she be
able to submit as those calm and simple figures on the tombs which she
loved appeared to be submitting? Would she let what she loved pass away
into the shades with a brave and noble, "Farewell"? Would she take the
hand of Sorrow, that hand of steel and ice, as one takes the hand of a
friend--stern, terrible, unfathomed, never to be fathomed in this world,
but a friend? He wondered, but, loving her with that love which never
ceased to grow within him, he prayed that he might never know. She
seemed born to shed happiness and to be happy, and indeed he could
scarcely imagine her wretched.

It was after the explanation of Mr. Thrush's exact relation to Rosamund
that the silent contest began in the waning summer when London was
rather arid, and even the Thames looked hot between its sluggish banks
of mud.

After the trial of her divorce case was over, Mrs. Clarke had left
London and gone into the country for a little while, to rest in a small
house possessed by Esme Darlington at Hook Green, a fashionable part
of Surrey. At, and round about, Hook Green various well-known persons
played occasionally at being rural; it suited Mrs. Clarke very well to
stay for a time among them under Mr. Darlington's ample and eminently
respectable wing. She hated being careful, but even she, admonished by
Mr. Darlington, realized that immediately after emerging from the shadow
of a great scandal she had better play propriety for a time. It really
must be "playing," for, as had been proved at the trial, she was a
thoroughly proper person who hadn't troubled to play hitherto. So she
rested at Hook Green, till the season was over, with Miss Bainbridge, an
old cousin of Esme's; and Esme "ran down" for Saturdays and Sundays, and
"ran up" from Mondays to Saturdays, thus seeing something of the season
and also doing his chivalrous devoir by "poor dear Cynthia who had had
such a cruel time of