whole attitude, the one to
the other. She would have seen to that. In her heart she had cursed Timmy
for his idiotic intrusion, and now she cursed him again.

Lately she had thought Radmore was becoming aware of Jack Tosswill's
growing absorption in her, and she had suspected, as well as hoped, that
he was a trifle jealous. Now jealousy, as Enid knew well, is a potent
quickener of feeling between a man and a woman. It was unfortunate that
Radmore seemed to regard Jack Tosswill as a mere boy--a rather tiresome,
priggish boy. Still, that had its good side. Jack was only a very slight
complication after all!

Again she cast a fleeting thought to Tremaine. In a sense he was her real
mate, her real soul, and, yes, body mate. If only he wasn't so poor! She
felt for a moment tempted to throw up everything--to do what he had so
urged her to do, what he was always writing and begging her to do. That
was to marry him quickly just before the end of his leave, and go out to
India with him. He wrote to her every day, and his last letter was in the
little silk bag now hanging on her arm.

It was the kind of love-letter that Enid understood, and enjoyed
receiving: full of ardent, if rather commonplace, expressions, and of
comparisons, very pleasant to her vanity, between her pretty self and the
stupid, ugly women he said he was now meeting. He had been with his
people in Cornwall--but for that he would of course have come down to see
how she was getting on. In this particular letter he announced that he
was going to be in London very soon, and might he run down for a day? He
had added a question, chaffingly worded, and yet, as she well knew,
seriously intended. Did she think it would be improper for him to come
and spend two or three days with her? And now she told herself, very
decidedly, that of course she couldn't have him here--in stupid,
old-fashioned Beechfield. It would be a tiresome, useless complication.
But why shouldn't she go up to London for three or four days and have a
good time with him there?

Enid was well aware that absence frequently makes the heart grow fonder,
and that distance does lend enchantment to the view. But she would not
have put it in those exact words.

At last she began walking towards the house, telling herself that she
felt oddly tired, and that it would be very pleasant, for once, to have a
solitary cup of tea. Her house-parlourmaid was shaping very nicely. Thus
the girl had evidently brought