ything is arranged."

He, too, sat up and leaned forward. In a voice rendered soft by the
realisation of the fact that he had indeed known her before Carlos
Smith knew her and had imagined himself once to be in love with her,
and of the harshness of her destiny and the fading of her glory, he
said simply and yet, in spite of himself, insinuatingly:

"No! I don't claim any right to stop you. I understand better,
perhaps, than you think. But let me come down again next week-end. Do
let me," he insisted, still more softly.

Even while he was speaking he expected her to say, "You're only
suggesting that in order to gain time."

But she said:

"How can you be sure it wouldn't be my inquest and funeral I should be
'letting' you come down to?"

He replied:

"I could trust you."

A delicate night-gust charged with the scent of some plant came in at
the open window and deranged ever so slightly a glistening lock on
her forehead. G.J., peering at her, saw the masculinity melt from her
face. He saw the mysterious resurrection of the girl in her, and felt
in himself the sudden exciting outflow from her of that temperamental
fluid whose springs had been dried up since the day when she learnt
of her widowhood. She flushed. He looked away into the dark water,
as though he had profanely witnessed that which ought not to be
witnessed. Earlier in the interview she had inspired him with shyness.
He was now stirred, agitated, thrilled--overwhelmed by the effect on
her of his own words and his own voice. He was afraid of his power,
as a prophet might be afraid of his power. He had worked a miracle--a
miracle infinitely more convincing than anything that had led up to
it. The miracle had brought back the reign of reality.

"Very well," she quivered.

And there was a movement and she was gone. He glanced quickly behind
him, but the room lay black.... A transient pallor on the blackness,
and the door banged. He sat a long time, solemn, gazing at the
serrated silhouette of the town against a sky that obstinately held
the wraith of daylight, and listening to the everlasting murmur of the
invisible weir. Not a sound came from the town, not the least sound.
When at length he stumbled out, he saw the figure of the landlord
smoking the pipe of philosophy, and waiting with a landlord's fatalism
for the last guest to go to bed. And they talked of the weather.

Chapter 41

THE ENVOY

The next night G.J., having been hailed by