ituation truly calculated to
create any amount of misunderstanding. To all appearances the adventure
on which he had started out had brought him to an impasse, a blind alley,
from which there was no favourable issue of any kind.

"The whole thing is a deuced muddle," he announced gloomily, addressing
himself to Josephus.

Josephus put his paws on Antony's knees, and licked the hand which was
not holding the pipe.

"To refuse the conditions," went on Antony aloud, and still gloomily, and
stroking Josephus's head, "is to bring matters to an absolute deadlock,
one from which I can never by the remotest atom of chance extricate
myself. To accept them--well, I don't see much better chance there. How
on earth am I to explain the situation to her? How on earth will she
understand the fact that I remain in England, and make no attempt to see
her for a year? I can't even hint at the situation. Oh, it's
preposterous! But to accept gives me the only possible faintest hope."

And then, suddenly, a memory sprang to life within his soul. He saw again
a courtyard set with small round tables and orange trees in green tubs.
He heard his own voice putting a question.

"What is the foundation of friendship?" it asked.

"Trust," came the reply, in the Duchessa's voice.

Yet, was her friendship strong enough to trust him in such a matter?
Strong enough not to misunderstand his silence, his--his oddness in the
whole business? And yet, was it not something like a confession of
weakness of friendship on his own part, to question the endurance of
hers? She had said they were friends. Perhaps the very test of the
strength of his own friendship was to lie in his trust of the strength of
hers. And, at all events, he could write her some kind of a letter,
something that would tell her of his utter inability to see her, even
though he might not give the smallest hint of what that inability was. At
least he could let her perceive it was by no wish of his own that he
stayed away.

Hope revived within his heart. On the one hand there would be temporary
banishment, truly. But it would be infinitely preferable to life-long
exile. A year, after all, was only a year. To him the moments might, nay
would, drag on leaden feet; but to her it would be but as other years,
and, ordinarily speaking, they speed by at an astonishing rate. He must
look to that assurance for comfort. A little odd smile twisted his lips.
What, after all, did a grey year signif