rather as though it were a game of battledore and
shuttlecock, she's never done anything to unfit herself to be my wife.
Even if she had--well, I still shouldn't consider I was absolved from
my responsibility towards her. Marriage is 'for better, for worse,'
and I can't be coward enough to shirk if it turns out 'for worse.' If
I did, anything might happen--anything! Celia's a woman of no
will-power--driven like a bit of fluff by every breeze that blows. So
you see, beloved, I must be waiting to help her when she comes back."

Nan lifted her eyes to his face.

"I see that you're just the best and bravest man I know--_preux
chevalier_, as I once called you. . . . Oh, Peter! She's the luckiest
woman in the world to be your wife! And she doesn't even know it!"

He drew her hands into his.

"Not really lucky to be my wife, Nan," he said quietly, "because I can
give her so little. Everything that matters--my love, my utter faith,
all my heart and soul--are yours, now and for ever."

Her hands quivered in his clasp. She dared not trust herself to speak,
lest she should give way and by her own weakness try his strength too
hard.

"Good-bye, dear," he said with infinite tenderness. Then, with a ghost
of the old whimsical smile that reminded her sharply, cruelly, of the
Peter of happier days: "We seem always to be saying good-bye, don't we?
And then Fate steps in and brings us together again. But this time it
is really good-bye--good-bye for always. When we meet again--if we
do--I shall have Celia to care for, and you will be Roger's wife."

He stooped his head and pressed his lips against first one soft palm
and then the other. She heard him cross the room and the door close
behind him. With a little cry she covered her face with her hands,
crushing the palms where his kiss had lain against her shaking lips.

CHAPTER XXIX

ON THIN ICE

May had slipped away into the ranks of the dead months, and June--a
June resplendent with sunshine and roses--had taken her place.

Nan, an open letter in her hand, sat perched on the low wall of the
quadrangular court at Mallow, delicately sniffing the delicious salt
tang which wafted up from the expanse of blue sea that stretched in
front of her. Physically she felt a different being from the girl who
had lain on a couch in London and grumbled fretfully at the houses
opposite. A month at Mallow had practically restored her health. The
good Cornish cream and bu