not ask herself whether Charteris's virtues or Gerrard's
account of them had brought them there. She took it for granted that
it was the former, and spoke accordingly.

"And the worst of it is, we don't realise what our friends are until we
lose them," she murmured.

"No, indeed we don't. One sees one's own unworthiness now, when it is
too late--when the remembrance of what he was makes a barrier for
ever----"

"A barrier--yes, of course; but a bond, too." This was a state of mind
which Honour could thoroughly understand and appreciate. A life-long
romantic friendship, absolutely precluded from becoming anything more,
was just what appealed to her. It suggested what may be termed the
Rolandseck ideal--the hero retiring from the world to an eligible
hermitage, affording an extensive view of a desirably situated nunnery,
where the heroine was similarly secluded--which, with its peculiar
blending of religion and sentimentality, animated so many of her
favourite books. "We can never forget that we have both known him, can
we? You will tell me more about him, and we will keep his memory alive
when all the world has forgotten him."

Whether the relief of unburdening his mind had served to clear her
hearer's vision, or merely that the thought of the real Bob Charteris,
most unsentimental of men, obtruded itself in all its incongruity with
Honour's scheme for commemorating him, certain it is that instead of
being grateful to her for falling in so exactly with his wishes,
Gerrard was conscious of a distinct impatience. Was there no flesh and
blood about the girl--no feeling, but merely sentiment? All unknown to
himself, Gerrard had not been intending to suffer alone, and it was a
blow to discover that what had meant to him a real and terrible
renunciation was to her a mere matter of course, rather pleasurable
than otherwise. He groaned as the truth forced itself upon him, and
Honour looked up in alarm.

"I have done you harm--tired you," she said anxiously. "We must have
another talk when you are better. I see my mother looking for me."

"Honour, it is time for us to go, dear," said Lady Cinnamond, coming
in, and looking "like other people," as Mrs Jardine had said, in a huge
halo of net and ribbon and flowers and blonde. Honour might make her
mother's caps, but they had to be submitted for Sir Arthur's
approbation, and as he was strongly of the opinion that there was
nothing like roses for setting off a pret