or a monkey hand, like a bit of leather, thrust down
your collar or into your ear. But after dinner that night, when Lady
MacGregor had trailed her maligned "fluffiness" away to the
drawing-room, and Nevill and Stephen had strolled with their cigarettes
out into the unearthly whiteness of the lily garden, Stephen felt that
something was coming. He had known that Nevill had a story to tell, by
and by, and though he knew also that he would be asked no questions in
return, now or ever, it occurred to him that Nevill's offer of
confidences was perhaps meant to open a door, if he chose to enter by
it. He was not sure whether he would so choose or not, but the fact that
he was not sure meant a change in him. A few days ago, even this
morning, before meeting Nevill, he would have been certain that he had
nothing intimate to tell Caird or any one else.

They strolled along the paths among the lilies. Moon and sky and flowers
and white-gravelled paths were all silver. Stephen thought of Victoria
Ray, and wished she could see this garden. He thought, too, that if she
would only dance here among the lilies in the moonlight, it would be a
vision of exquisite loveliness.

"For a moment white, then gone forever," he caught himself repeating
again.

It was odd how, whenever he saw anything very white and of dazzling
purity, he thought of this dancing girl. He wondered what sort of woman
it was whose image came to Nevill's mind, in the garden of lilies that
smelt so heavenly sweet under the moon. He supposed there must always be
some woman whose image was suggested to every man by all that was
fairest in nature. Margot Lorenzi was the woman whose image he must keep
in his mind, if he wanted to know any faint imitation of happiness in
future. She would like this moonlit garden, and in one way it would suit
her as a background. Yet she did not seem quite in the picture, despite
her beauty. The perfume she loved would not blend with the perfume of
the lilies.

"Aunt Caroline's rather a dear, isn't she?" remarked Nevill, apropos of
nothing.

"She's a jewel," said Stephen.

"Yet she isn't the immediate jewel of my soul. I'm hard hit, Stephen,
and the girl won't have me. She's poorer than any church or other mouse
I ever met, yet she turns up her little French nose at me and my palace,
and all the cheese I should like to see her nibble--my cheese."

"Her French nose?" echoed Stephen.

"Yes. Her nose and the rest of her's French, e