did not want to have anything
to do with her. She continued to go often to Beattie and Daventry,
consolidated her friendship with them. But Dion never met her in
De Lorne Gardens. From Daventry he learnt that Mrs. Clarke had been
extraordinarily kind to Beattie when Beattie's expectation of motherhood
had faded away. Bruce Evelin's apprehension was well founded. For
reasons which Daventry did not enter into Beattie could never now hope
to have a child. Daventry was greatly distressed about it, but rather
for Beattie's sake than for his own.

"I married Beattie because I loved her, not because I wanted to become a
father," he said.

After a long pause he added, almost wistfully.

"As to Beattie's reasons for marrying me, well, Dion, I haven't asked
what they were and I never shall. Women are mysterious, and I believe
it's wisdom on our part not to try to force the locks and look into
the hidden chambers. I'll do what I can to make up to Beattie for this
terrible disappointment. It won't be nearly enough, but that isn't my
fault. Rosamund and you can help her a little."

"How?"

"She--she's extraordinarily fond of Robin."

"Extraordinarily?" said Dion, startled almost by Daventry's peculiar
emphasis on the word.

"Yes. Let her see a good deal of Robin if you can. Poor Beattie! She'll
never have a child of her own to live in."

Dion told Rosamund of this conversation, and they agreed to encourage
Beattie to come to Little Market Street as often as possible.
Nevertheless Beattie did not come very often. It was obvious that she
adored Robin, who was always polite to her; but perhaps delicacy of
feeling kept her from making perpetual pilgrimages to the shrine before
which an incense not hers was forever ascending; or perhaps she met
a gaunt figure of Pain in the home of her sister. However it was, her
visits were rather rare, and no persuasion availed to make her come
oftener. At this time she and Dion's mother drew closer together, The
two women loved and understood each other well. Perhaps between them
there was a link of loneliness, or perhaps there was another link.

Early in April Dion received one morning the following letter:

"CLARIDGE'S HOTEL 6 April

"DEAR MR. LEITH,--I feel pretty rotten about you. I thought when once
a clever boxer gave his honor on a thing it was a dead cert. The mater
wouldn't let me write before, though I've been at her over it every day
for weeks. But now we're going away, so