ther; they took light
things--like millions--lightly, and grave things--like ideals and
responsibilities--gravely. And, ah yes, there it was--Althea turning her
head to look at the speeding landscape of autumnal pearl and gold,
thought, over her sense of smothered tears--they knew what things were
really serious. They couldn't mistake the apparent for the real
triviality; they knew that some symbols of affection--trifling as they
might be--were almost necessary. But then they understood affection. It
was at this point that her sore heart sank to a leaden depression.
Affection--cherishing, forestalling, imaginative affection--there was no
lack of it, she was sure of that, in this beautiful England of pearl and
gold which, in its melancholy, its sweetness, its breathing out of
memories immemorial, so penetrated and possessed her; but was there not
a terrible lack of it in the England that was to be hers, and where she
was to make her home?

CHAPTER XX.

It was four days after Althea's arrival in London that Gerald stood in
Helen's sitting-room and confronted her--smoking her cigarette in her
low chair--as he had confronted her that summer on her return from
Paris. Gerald looked rather absent and he looked rather worried, and
Helen, who had observed these facts the moment he came in, was able to
observe them for some time while he stood there before her, not looking
at her, looking at nothing in particular, his eyes turning vaguely from
the mist-enveloped trees outside to the flowers on the writing-table,
and his eyebrows, always very expressive, knitting themselves a little
or lifting as if in the attempt to dispel recurrent and oppressive
preoccupations. It would have been natural in their free intercourse
that, after a certain lapse of time, Helen should ask him what the
matter was, helping him often, with the mere question, to recognise that
something was the matter. But to-day she said nothing, and it was her
silence instead of her questioning that made Gerald aware that he was
standing there expecting to have his state of mind probed and then
elucidated. It added a little to his sense of perplexity that Helen
should be silent, and it was with a slight irritation that he turned and
kicked a log before saying--'I'm rather bothered, Helen.'

'What is it?' said Helen. 'Money?' This had often been a bother to them
both.

Half turned from her, he shook his head. 'No, not money; that's all
right now, thanks to