they would
never meet again, and the sad thought floated up into their eyes as they
said good-bye. She went to the window, wondering if he would stay a
moment to look back. He stood on the edge of the pavement, and she
watched him unmoved. She was thinking of Monsignor, and of how he would
approve of her conduct. He would tell her that what she liked and
disliked was no longer the question. Owen still stood on the kerb, but
she did not even see him. Her eyes looked into the sunset, and she was
thrilled with a mysterious joy, a joy that came from the heart, not from
passions, and it was exquisitely subtle as the light that faded in the
remote west.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

He walked up Park Lane, staring now and then at the quaint balconies
from a mere habit of admiration. But all were indifferent to him, even
the one supported by the four Empire figures. It did not seem that
anything in the world could interest him again, and he wondered how he
would get through the years that remained to him to live. He was tired
of hunting and shooting; he had seen everything there was to be seen; he
had been round the world twice; it did not seem to him that he would
ever care for another woman, and he reflected with pride that he had
been faithful to Evelyn for six years. "But I shall never see her
again," his heart wailed; "in three months she'll be a different woman;
she won't want to see me, she'll find some excuse. That infernal priest
will refuse his absolution if--" Owen stopped suddenly. Far away a
little pink cloud dissolved mysteriously. "In another second," he
thought, "it will be no more." In the Green Park the trees rocked in the
soft autumn air, and he noticed that now and then a leaf broke from its
twig, fluttered across the path, and fell by the iron railings.

"Well, Asher, how is it that you are in town at this time of year?"

It was a club acquaintance, one of the ordinary conventional men that
Owen met by the dozen in every one of his clubs, a man whose next
question would surely be, "How are your two-year-olds?"

"I should like to hear that they had all broken their legs," Owen
answered through his teeth, and the colour mounted in his cheeks.

"Asher always was mad ... now he seems madder than ever. What did he
mean by saying he wished his two-year-olds had all broken their legs?"

Owen lingered on the kerb, inveighing against the stupidity of his set.
He had thought of dining at the Turf Club, but af