rotest this time was more emphatic. There was even a pleading note
in it. In the course of two or three hours he had got back much of the
feeling he had had in England that she was more than an exquisite lady,
that she was the other part of himself. It seemed superfluous on her
part to fling open the way of retreat for him too wide.

She smiled at his exclamation. "Yes, I dare say that's how it strikes
you. But it's very serious to me. Isn't it serious to you, too, to feel
that you must be true to me--and marry me--after all that's come to
pass?"

"One doesn't think that way--or speak that way--of marrying the woman
one--adores."

"Men have been known to marry the women they adored, and still regret
the consequences they had to meet."

"She's right," he said to himself. "It _is_ serious."

There could be no question as to her wisdom in asking him to pause. At
his age and in his position, and with his merely normal capacity for
passion, it would be absurd to call the world well lost for love.
Notwithstanding his zeal to do the right thing, there was something due
to himself, and it was imperative that he should consider it. Dropping
the stump of his cigar into his empty coffee-cup, he got up and strode
away. The emotion of the minute, far in excess of the restrained phrases
convention taught them to use, offered an excuse for his
unceremoniousness.

He walked to the other side of the lawn, then down to the gate, then
round to the front of the house. To a chance passer-by he was merely
inspecting the premises. What he saw, however, was not the spectacular
foliage, nor the mellow Georgian dwelling, but himself going on his
familiar victorious way, freed from a clogging scandal that would make
the wheels of his triumphal car drive heavily. He saw himself advancing,
as he had advanced hitherto, from promotion to promotion, from command
to command. He saw himself first alone, and then with a wife--a wife who
was not Olivia Guion. Then suddenly the vision changed into something
misty and undefined; the road became dark, the triumphal car jolted and
fell to pieces; there was reproach in the air and discomfort in his
sensations. He recognized the familiar warnings that he was not doing
precisely the right thing. He saw Olivia Guion sitting as he had left
her four or five minutes before, her head bent over her stitching. He
saw her there, deserted, alone. He saw the eyes of England on him, as he
drove away in his triumphal