been perfect. But he
couldn't be Strephon; he could be nothing but a neurotic
twentieth-century youth, sensitive to such amenities and refinements as
he had, and eager to get more. He was the type to go sporting with
Amaryllis in the shade--but the shade was what made the exercise
enchanting.

His obscure rebellion against the power that forced him to drag his love
out into the light impelled him to say, without quite knowing why, "Did
Thor ever speak of you and me being married?"

Because he was pressing her to him so closely he felt the shudder that
ran through her frame. It seemed to run through his own as he waited for
her reply.

"No."

Rosie never told a lie unless she thought she was obliged to. She
thought it now because of Claude's jealousy. She had seen flashes of it
more than once, and always at some mention of his brother. She was
terror-stricken as she felt his arm relax its embrace--terror-stricken
lest Thor should have already given the information that would prove she
was lying. She asked, trembling, "Did he ever say he had?"

"Do you think he'd say it, if he hadn't?"

"N-no; I don't suppose so."

"Then why should you ask me that?"

She surprised him by bursting into tears. "Oh, Claude, don't be cross
with me. Don't say what you said the last time you were cross--that
you'd go away and never come back again. If you did that I should die. I
couldn't live. I should kill myself."

There followed one of the scenes of soothing in which Claude was
specially adept, and which he specially enjoyed. The pleasure was so
exquisite that he prolonged it, so that by the time he emerged from the
hothouse Jasper Fay was standing in the yard.

As the old man's back was turned, Claude endeavored to slip by,
unobserved and silent. He succeeded in the silence, but not in being
unobserved. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the dim figure dogging
him as it had dogged him on a former occasion, with the bizarre,
sinister suggestion of a beast about to spring.

Claude could afford to smile at so absurd an idea in connection with
poor old Fay, but his nerves were shaken by certain passionate,
desperate utterances he had just heard from Rosie. She was in general so
prudent, so self-controlled, that he had hardly expected to see her give
way either in weeping or in words. She had broken down in both respects,
while his nature was so responsive that he felt as if he had broken down
himself. In the way of emotions it