ing himself free, at
least of Margot's society, was a surprise; and yet Stephen vaguely
understood its real meaning. To be free, yet not free, was an
aggravation. And besides, he did not know what to do or where to go, now
that old friends and old haunts had lost much of their attraction.

Since the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lorenzi, and especially
since the famous interview, copied in all the papers, he disliked
meeting people he knew well, lest they should offer good advice, or let
him see that they were dying to do so.

If it had been weak to say, "Be my wife, if you think I can make you
happy," one day when Margot Lorenzi had tearfully confessed her love for
him, it would be doubly weak--worse than weak, Stephen thought--to throw
her over now. It would look to the world as if he were a coward, and it
would look to himself the same--which would be more painful in the end.
So he could listen to no advice, and he wished to hear none. Fortunately
he was not in love with any other woman. But then, if he had loved
somebody else, he would not have made the foolish mistake of saying
those unlucky, irrevocable words to Margot.

Stephen would have liked to get away from England for a while, but he
hardly knew where to look for a haven. Since making a dash through
France and Italy just after leaving Oxford, he had been too busy amusing
himself in his own country to find time for any other, with the
exception of an occasional run over to Paris. Now, if he stopped in
England it would be difficult to evade officious friends, and soon
everybody would be gossiping about his quarrel with Northmorland. The
Duchess was not reticent.

Stephen had not yet made up his mind what to do, or whether to do
anything at all in his brief interval of freedom, when a letter came, to
the flat near Albert Gate, where he had shut himself up after the
sailing of Margot. The letter was post-marked Algiers, and it was a long
time since he had seen the writing on the envelope--but not so long that
he had forgotten it.

"Nevill Caird!" he said to himself as he broke the neat seal which was
characteristic of the writer. And he wondered, as he slowly, almost
reluctantly, unfolded the letter, whether Nevill Caird had been reminded
of him by reading the interview with Margot. Once, he and Caird had been
very good friends, almost inseparable during one year at Oxford. Stephen
had been twenty then, and Nevill Caird about twenty-three. That wou