I do not think
you have met my husband."

"I rarely do dine out," said Heath, staring before him as the car backed
round in the limited space of Paradise Street.

"Then make this an exception. I won't ask you to a function, just a
quiet little family party."

"You are very kind."

He was still abstracted, and hardly seemed to hear her, and, when he got
out and shut the door, she leaned from the window, smiling like weary
royalty.

"I will write and arrange an evening later on. It is a promise, Mr.
Heath."

"I will come," he replied, in the same preoccupied voice, as he raised
his battered _topi_.

"What has he been doing?" she asked herself, in surprise, and again and
again she put the same question to herself, not only that morning, but
often, later on, and with ever-increasing curiosity.

IX

MRS. WILDER IS PRESENTED IN A MELTING MOOD, AND DRAYCOTT WILDER IS
FORCED TO RECALL THE LINES COMMENCING "A FOOL THERE WAS"

It was a bright morning with a high wind blowing and a breath of
freshness in the air that has a charm to inspire a better outlook upon
life. Everywhere it made itself felt in Mangadone, and like Pippa in the
poem, the wind passed along, leaving everything and everybody a little
better for its coming. It passed through the open veranda of the huge
hospital, and touched the fever patients with its cool breath; it
hurried through the Chinese quarter, blew along Paradise Street, dusting
the gesticulating man, and went on up the river, pretending to make the
brown water change its muddy mind and run backwards instead of forwards.
It paid a little freakish attention to Mrs. Wilder's dark hair, and it
cooled the back of Hartley's neck, as they rode along together, by the
way of a lake.

They had met quite accidentally, and Hartley, who had been vaguely
wishing for an opportunity to speak to Mrs. Wilder, seized upon it and
offered himself as her escort. She agreed with complimentary readiness,
and they turned along a wooded road, where the shadows were deep and
where Hartley felt the gripping hands of romance loosen his
heart-strings.

Mrs. Wilder listened to him, or appeared to do so, which is much the
same in effect, and Hartley was not critical. She was a good listener,
as women who have something else to think about often are; and so they
rode along the twisting path, and the wind sang in the plumes of the
bamboo trees, and Hartley believed that it sang a romantic lyric of
platonic a