Chapter 1
    "Unexpected obstacle. Please don't come till thirtieth.
　　Anna."All the way from Charing Cross to Dover the train hadhammered the words of the telegram into George Darrow'sears, ringing every change of irony on its commonplacesyllables: rattling them out like a discharge of musketry,letting them, one by one, drip slowly and coldly into hisbrain, or shaking, tossing, transposing them like the dicein some game of the gods of malice; and now, as he emergedfrom his compartment at the pier, and stood facing the wind-swept platform and the angry sea beyond, they leapt out athim as if from the crest of the waves, stung and blinded himwith a fresh fury of derision.
　　"Unexpected obstacle. Please don't come till thirtieth.
　　Anna."She had put him off at the very last moment, and for thesecond time: put him off with all her sweet reasonableness,and for one of her usual "good" reasons--he was certain thatthis reason, like the other, (the visit of her husband'suncle's widow) would be "good"! But it was that verycertainty which chilled him. The fact of her dealing soreasonably with their case shed an ironic light on the ideathat there had been any exceptional warmth in the greetingshe had given him after their twelve years apart.
　　They had found each other again, in London, some threemonths previously, at a dinner at the American Embassy, andwhen she had caught sight of him her smile had been like ared rose pinned on her widow's mourning. He still felt thethrob of surprise with which, among the stereotyped faces ofthe season's diners, he had come upon her unexpected face,with the dark hair banded above grave eyes; eyes in which hehad recognized every little curve and shadow as he wouldhave recognized, after half a life-time, the details of aroom he had played in as a child. And as, in the plumedstarred crowd, she had stood out for him, slender, secludedand different, so he had felt, the instant their glancesmet, that he as sharply detached himself for her. All thatand more her smile had said; had said not merely "Iremember," but "I remember just what you remember"; almost,indeed, as though her memory had aided his, her glance flungback on their recaptured moment its morning brightness.
　　Certainly, when their distracted Ambassadress--with the cry:
　　"Oh, you know Mrs. Leath? That's perfect, for GeneralFarnham has failed me"--had waved them together for themarch to the diningroom, Darrow had felt a slight pressureof the arm on his, a pressure faintly but unmistakablyemphasizing the exclamation: "Isn't it wonderful?--InLondon--in the season--in a mob?"Little enough, on the part of most women; but it was a signof Mrs. Leath's quality that every movement, every syllable,told with her. Even in the old days, as an intent grave-eyed girl, she had seldom misplaced her light strokes; andDarrow, on meeting her again, had immediately felt how muchfiner and surer an instrument of expression she had become.
　　Their evening together had been a long confirmation of thisfeeling. She had talked to him, shyly yet frankly, of whathad happened to her during the years when they had sostrangely failed to meet. She had told him of her marriageto Fraser Leath, and of her subsequent life in France, whereher husband's mother, left a widow in his youth, had beenre-married to the Marquis de Chantelle, and where, partly inconsequence of this second union, the son had permanentlysettled himself. She had spoken also, with an intenseeagerness of affection, of her little girl Effie, who wasnow nine years old, and, in a strain hardly less tender, ofOwen Leath, the charming clever young stepson whom herhusband's death had left to her care...
　　A porter, stumbling against Darrow's bags, roused him to thefact that he still obstructed the platform, inert andencumbering as his luggage.
　　"Crossing, sir?"Was he crossing? He really didn't know; but for lack of anymore compelling impulse he followed the porter to theluggage van, singled out his property, and turned to marchbehind it down the gang-way. As the fierce wind shoulderedhim, building up a crystal wall against his efforts, he feltanew the derision of his case.
　　"Nasty weather to cross, sir," the porter threw back at himas they beat their way down the narrow walk to the pier.
　　Nasty weather, indeed; but luckily, as it had turned out,there was no earthly reason why Darrow should cross.
　　While he pushed on in the wake of his luggage his thoughtsslipped back into the old groove. He had once or twice runacross the man whom Anna Summers had preferred to him, andsince he had met her again he had been exercising hisimagination on the picture of what her married life musthave been. Her husband had struck him as a characteristicspecimen of the kind of American as to whom one is not quiteclear whether he lives in Europe in order to cultivate anart, or cultivates an art as a pretext for living in Europe.
　　Mr. Leath's art was water-colour painting, but he practisedit furtively, almost clandestinely, with the disdain of aman of the world for anything bordering on the professional,while he devoted himself more openly, and with religiousseriousness, to the collection of enamelled snuff-boxes. Hewas blond and well-dressed, with the physical distinctionthat comes from having a straight figure, a thin nose, andthe habit of looking slightly disgusted--as who should not,in a world where authentic snuff-boxes were growing dailyharder to find, and the market was flooded with flagrantforgeries?
　　Darrow had often wondered what possibilities of communionthere could have been between Mr. Leath and his wife. Nowhe concluded that there had probably been none. Mrs.
　　Leath's words gave no hint of her husband's having failed tojustify her choice; but her very reticence betrayed her.
　　She spoke of him with a kind of impersonal seriousness, asif he had been a character in a novel or a figure inhistory; and what she said sounded as though it had beenlearned by heart and slightly dulled by repetition. Thisfact immensely increased Darrow's impression that hismeeting with her had annihilated the intervening years.
　　She, who was always so elusive and inaccessible, had grownsuddenly communicative and kind: had opened the doors of herpast, and tacitly left him to draw his own conclusions. Asa result, he had taken leave of her with the sense that hewas a being singled out and privileged, to whom she hadentrusted something precious to keep. It was her happinessin their meeting that she had given him, had frankly lefthim to do with as he willed; and the frankness of thegesture doubled the beauty of the gift.
　　Their next meeting had prolonged and deepened theimpression. They had found each other again, a few dayslater, in an old country house full of books and pictures,in the soft landscape of southern England. The presence of alarge party, with all its aimless and agitateddisplacements, had served only to isolate the pair and givethem (at least to the young man's fancy) a deeper feeling ofcommunion, and their days there had been like some musicalprelude, where the instruments, breathing low, seem to holdback the waves of sound that press against them.
　　Mrs. Leath, on this occasion, was no less kind than before;but she contrived to make him understand that what was soinevitably coming was not to come too soon. It was not thatshe showed any hesitation as to the issue, but rather thatshe seemed to wish not to miss any stage in the gradualreflowering of their intimacy.
　　Darrow, for his part, was content to wait if she wished it.
　　He remembered that once, in America, when she was a girl,and he had gone to stay with her family in the country, shehad been out when he arrived, and her mother had told him tolook for her in the garden. She was not in the garden, butbeyond it he had seen her approaching down a long shadypath. Without hastening her step she had smiled and signedto him to wait; and charmed by the lights and shadows thatplayed upon her as she moved, and by the pleasure ofwatching her slow advance toward him, he had obeyed her andstood still. And so she seemed now to be walking to him downthe years, the light and shade of old memories and new hopesplaying variously on her, and each step giving him thevision of a different grace. She did not waver or turnaside; he knew she would come straight to where he stood;but something in her eyes said "Wait", and again he obeyedand waited.
　　On the fourth day an unexpected event threw out hiscalculations. Summoned to town by the arrival in England ofher husband's mother, she left without giving Darrow thechance he had counted on, and he cursed himself for adilatory blunderer. Still, his disappointment was temperedby the certainty of being with her again before she left forFrance; and they did in fact see each other in London.
　　There, however, the atmosphere had changed with theconditions. He could not say that she avoided him, or eventhat she was a shade less glad to see him; but she was besetby family duties and, as he thought, a little too readilyresigned to them.
　　The Marquise de Chantelle, as Darrow soon perceived, had thesame mild formidableness as the late Mr. Leath: a sort ofinsistent self-effacement before which every one about hergave way. It was perhaps the shadow of this lady'spresence--pervasive even during her actual brief eclipses--that subdued and silenced Mrs. Leath. The latter was,moreover, preoccupied about her stepson, who, soon afterreceiving his degree at Harvard, had been rescued from astormy love-affair, and finally, after some months oftroubled drifting, had yielded to his step-mother's counseland gone up to Oxford for a year of supplementary study.
　　Thither Mrs. Leath went once or twice to visit him, and herremaining days were packed with family obligations: getting,as she phrased it, "frocks and governesses" for her littlegirl, who had been left in France, and having to devote theremaining hours to long shopping expeditions with hermother-in-law. Nevertheless, during her brief escapes fromduty, Darrow had had time to feel her safe in the custody ofhis devotion, set apart for some inevitable hour; and thelast evening, at the theatre, between the overshadowingMarquise and the unsuspicious Owen, they had had an almostdecisive exchange of words.
　　Now, in the rattle of the wind about his ears, Darrowcontinued to hear the mocking echo of her message:
　　"Unexpected obstacle." In such an existence as Mrs. Leath's,at once so ordered and so exposed, he knew how small acomplication might assume the magnitude of an "obstacle;"yet, even allowing as impartially as his state of mindpermitted for the fact that, with her mother-in-law always,and her stepson intermittently, under her roof, her lotinvolved a hundred small accommodations generally foreign tothe freedom of widowhood--even so, he could not but thinkthat the very ingenuity bred of such conditions might havehelped her to find a way out of them. No, her "reason",whatever it was, could, in this case, be nothing but apretext; unless he leaned to the less flattering alternativethat any reason seemed good enough for postponing him!
　　Certainly, if her welcome had meant what he imagined, shecould not, for the second time within a few weeks, havesubmitted so tamely to the disarrangement of their plans; adisarrangement which--his official duties considered--might,for all she knew, result in his not being able to go to herfor months.
　　"Please don't come till thirtieth." The thirtieth--and itwas now the fifteenth! She flung back the fortnight on hishands as if he had been an idler indifferent to dates,instead of an active young diplomatist who, to respond toher call, had had to hew his way through a very jungle ofengagements! "Please don't come till thirtieth." That wasall. Not the shadow of an excuse or a regret; not even theperfunctory "have written" with which it is usual to softensuch blows. She didn't want him, and had taken the shortestway to tell him so. Even in his first moment ofexasperation it struck him as characteristic that she shouldnot have padded her postponement with a fib. Certainly hermoral angles were not draped!
　　"If I asked her to marry me, she'd have refused in the samelanguage. But thank heaven I haven't!" he reflected.
　　These considerations, which had been with him every yard ofthe way from London, reached a climax of irony as he wasdrawn into the crowd on the pier. It did not soften hisfeelings to remember that, but for her lack of forethought,he might, at this harsh end of the stormy May day, have beensitting before his club fire in London instead of shiveringin the damp human herd on the pier. Admitting the sex'straditional right to change, she might at least have advisedhim of hers by telegraphing directly to his rooms. But inspite of their exchange of letters she had apparently failedto note his address, and a breathless emissary had rushedfrom the Embassy to pitch her telegram into his compartmentas the train was moving from the station.
　　Yes, he had given her chance enough to learn where he lived;and this minor proof of her indifference became, as hejammed his way through the crowd, the main point of hisgrievance against her and of his derision of himself. Halfway down the pier the prod of an umbrella increased hisexasperation by rousing him to the fact that it was raining.
　　Instantly the narrow ledge became a battle-ground ofthrusting, slanting, parrying domes. The wind rose with therain, and the harried wretches exposed to this doubleassault wreaked on their neighbours the vengeance they couldnot take on the elements.
　　Darrow, whose healthy enjoyment of life made him in generala good traveller, tolerant of agglutinated humanity, felthimself obscurely outraged by these promiscuous contacts.
　　It was as though all the people about him had taken hismeasure and known his plight; as though they werecontemptuously bumping and shoving him like theinconsiderable thing he had become. "She doesn't want you,doesn't want you, doesn't want you," their umbrellas andtheir elbows seemed to say.
　　He had rashly vowed, when the telegram was flung into hiswindow: "At any rate I won't turn back"--as though it mightcause the sender a malicious joy to have him retrace hissteps rather than keep on to Paris! Now he perceived theabsurdity of the vow, and thanked his stars that he need notplunge, to no purpose, into the fury of waves outside theharbour.
　　With this thought in his mind he turned back to look for hisporter; but the contiguity of dripping umbrellas madesignalling impossible and, perceiving that he had lost sightof the man, he scrambled up again to the platform. As hereached it, a descending umbrella caught him in the collar-bone; and the next moment, bent sideways by the wind, itturned inside out and soared up, kite-wise, at the end of ahelpless female arm.
　　Darrow caught the umbrella, lowered its inverted ribs, andlooked up at the face it exposed to him.
　　"Wait a minute," he said; "you can't stay here."As he spoke, a surge of the crowd drove the owner of theumbrella abruptly down on him. Darrow steadied her withextended arms, and regaining her footing she cried out: "Oh,dear, oh, dear! It's in ribbons!"Her lifted face, fresh and flushed in the driving rain, wokein him a memory of having seen it at a distant time and in avaguely unsympathetic setting; but it was no moment tofollow up such clues, and the face was obviously one to makeits way on its own merits.
　　Its possessor had dropped her bag and bundles to clutch atthe tattered umbrella. "I bought it only yesterday at theStores; and--yes--it's utterly done for!" she lamented.
　　Darrow smiled at the intensity of her distress. It was foodfor the moralist that, side by side with such catastrophesas his, human nature was still agitating itself over itsmicroscopic woes!
　　"Here's mine if you want it!" he shouted back at her throughthe shouting of the gale.
　　The offer caused the young lady to look at him moreintently. "Why, it's Mr. Darrow!" she exclaimed; and then,all radiant recognition: "Oh, thank you! We'll share it, ifyou will."She knew him, then; and he knew her; but how and where hadthey met? He put aside the problem for subsequent solution,and drawing her into a more sheltered corner, bade her waittill he could find his porter.
　　When, a few minutes later, he came back with his recoveredproperty, and the news that the boat would not leave tillthe tide had turned, she showed no concern.
　　"Not for two hours? How lucky--then I can find my trunk!"Ordinarily Darrow would have felt little disposed to involvehimself in the adventure of a young female who had lost hertrunk; but at the moment he was glad of any pretext foractivity. Even should he decide to take the next up trainfrom Dover he still had a yawning hour to fill; and theobvious remedy was to devote it to the loveliness indistress under his umbrella.
　　"You've lost a trunk? Let me see if I can find it."It pleased him that she did not return the conventional "Oh,WOULD you?" Instead, she corrected him with a laugh--Nota trunk, but my trunk; I've no other--" and then addedbriskly: "You'd better first see to getting your own thingson the boat."This made him answer, as if to give substance to his plansby discussing them: "I don't actually know that I'm goingover.""Not going over?""Well...perhaps not by this boat." Again he felt a stealingindecision. "I may probably have to go back to London.
　　I'm--I'm waiting...expecting a letter...(She'll think me adefaulter," he reflected.) "But meanwhile there's plenty oftime to find your trunk."He picked up his companion's bundles, and offered her an armwhich enabled her to press her slight person more closelyunder his umbrella; and as, thus linked, they beat their wayback to the platform, pulled together and apart likemarionettes on the wires of the wind, he continued to wonderwhere he could have seen her. He had immediately classedher as a compatriot; her small nose, her clear tints, a kindof sketchy delicacy in her face, as though she had beenbrightly but lightly washed in with water-colour, allconfirmed the evidence of her high sweet voice and of herquick incessant gestures.She was clearly an American, butwith the loose native quality strained through a closer woofof manners: the composite product of an enquiring andadaptable race. All this, however, did not help him to fita name to her, for just such instances were perpetuallypouring through the London Embassy, and the etched andangular American was becoming rarer than the fluid type.
　　More puzzling than the fact of his being unable to identifyher was the persistent sense connecting her with somethinguncomfortable and distasteful. So pleasant a vision as thatgleaming up at him between wet brown hair and wet brown boashould have evoked only associations as pleasing; but eacheffort to fit her image into his past resulted in the samememories of boredom and a vague discomfort...
Chapter 2
    Don't you remember me now--at Mrs. Murrett's?"She threw the question at Darrow across a table of the quietcoffee-room to which, after a vainly prolonged quest for hertrunk, he had suggested taking her for a cup of tea.
　　In this musty retreat she had removed her dripping hat, hungit on the fender to dry, and stretched herself on tiptoe infront of the round eagle-crowned mirror, above the mantelvases of dyed immortelles, while she ran her fingers comb-wise through her hair. The gesture had acted on Darrow'snumb feelings as the glow of the fire acted on hiscirculation; and when he had asked: "Aren't your feet wet,too?" and, after frank inspection of a stout-shod sole, shehad answered cheerfully: "No--luckily I had on my newboots," he began to feel that human intercourse would stillbe tolerable if it were always as free from formality.
　　The removal of his companion's hat, besides provoking thisreflection, gave him his first full sight of her face; andthis was so favourable that the name she now pronounced fellon him with a quite disproportionate shock of dismay.
　　"Oh, Mrs. Murrett's--was it THERE?"He remembered her now, of course: remembered her as one ofthe shadowy sidling presences in the background of thatawful house in Chelsea, one of the dumb appendages of theshrieking unescapable Mrs. Murrett, into whose talons he hadfallen in the course of his head-long pursuit of Lady UlricaCrispin. Oh, the taste of stale follies! How insipid itwas, yet how it clung!
　　"I used to pass you on the stairs," she reminded him.
　　Yes: he had seen her slip by--he recalled it now--as hedashed up to the drawing-room in quest of Lady Ulrica. Thethought made him steal a longer look. How could such a facehave been merged in the Murrett mob? Its fugitive slantinglines, that lent themselves to all manner of tender tiltsand foreshortenings, had the freakish grace of some younghead of the Italian comedy. The hair stood up from herforehead in a boyish elf-lock, and its colour matched herauburn eyes flecked with black, and the little brown spot onher cheek, between the ear that was meant to have a rosebehind it and the chin that should have rested on a ruff.
　　When she smiled, the left corner of her mouth went up alittle higher than the right; and her smile began in hereyes and ran down to her lips in two lines of light. He haddashed past that to reach Lady Ulrica Crispin!
　　"But of course you wouldn't remember me," she was saying.
　　"My name is Viner--Sophy Viner."Not remember her? But of course he DID! He was genuinelysure of it now. "You're Mrs. Murrett's niece," he declared.
　　She shook her head. "No; not even that. Only her reader.""Her reader? Do you mean to say she ever reads?"Miss Viner enjoyed his wonder. "Dear, no! But I wrotenotes, and made up the visiting-book, and walked the dogs,and saw bores for her."Darrow groaned. "That must have been rather bad!""Yes; but nothing like as bad as being her niece.""That I can well believe. I'm glad to hear," he added,"that you put it all in the past tense."She seemed to droop a little at the allusion; then shelifted her chin with a jerk of defiance. "Yes. All is atan end between us. We've just parted in tears--but not insilence!""Just parted? Do you mean to say you've been there all thistime?""Ever since you used to come there to see Lady Ulrica? Doesit seem to you so awfully long ago?"The unexpectedness of the thrust--as well as its doubtfultaste--chilled his growing enjoyment of her chatter. He hadreally been getting to like her--had recovered, under thecandid approval of her eye, his usual sense of being apersonable young man, with all the privileges pertaining tothe state, instead of the anonymous rag of humanity he hadfelt himself in the crowd on the pier. It annoyed him, atthat particular moment, to be reminded that naturalness isnot always consonant with taste.
　　She seemed to guess his thought. "You don't like my sayingthat you came for Lady Ulrica?" she asked, leaning over thetable to pour herself a second cup of tea.
　　He liked her quickness, at any rate. "It's better," helaughed, "than your thinking I came for Mrs. Murrett!""Oh, we never thought anybody came for Mrs. Murrett! It wasalways for something else: the music, or the cook--whenthere was a good one--or the other people; generally ONEof the other people.""I see."She was amusing, and that, in his present mood, was more tohis purpose than the exact shade of her taste. It was odd,too, to discover suddenly that the blurred tapestry of Mrs.
　　Murrett's background had all the while been alive and fullof eyes. Now, with a pair of them looking into his, he wasconscious of a queer reversal of perspective.
　　"Who were the 'we'? Were you a cloud of witnesses?""There were a good many of us." She smiled. "Let me see--who was there in your time? Mrs. Bolt--and Mademoiselle--andProfessor Didymus and the Polish Countess. Don't youremember the Polish Countess? She crystal-gazed, and playedaccompaniments, and Mrs. Murrett chucked her because Mrs.
　　Didymus accused her of hypnotizing the Professor. But ofcourse you don't remember. We were all invisible to you;but we could see. And we all used to wonder about you----"Again Darrow felt a redness in the temples. "What aboutme?""Well--whether it was you or she who..."He winced, but hid his disapproval. It made the time passto listen to her.
　　"And what, if one may ask, was your conclusion?""Well, Mrs. Bolt and Mademoiselle and the Countess naturallythought it was SHE; but Professor Didymus and JimmyBrance--especially Jimmy----""Just a moment: who on earth is Jimmy Brance?"She exclaimed in wonder: "You WERE absorbed--not toremember Jimmy Brance! He must have been right about you,after all." She let her amused scrutiny dwell on him. "Buthow could you? She was false from head to foot!""False----?" In spite of time and satiety, the male instinctof ownership rose up and repudiated the charge.
　　Miss Viner caught his look and laughed. "Oh, I only meantexternally! You see, she often used to come to my room aftertennis, or to touch up in the evenings, when they were goingon; and I assure you she took apart like a puzzle. In factI used to say to Jimmy--just to make him wild--:'I'll betyou anything you like there's nothing wrong, because I knowshe'd never dare un--'" She broke the word in two, and herquick blush made her face like a shallow-petalled roseshading to the deeper pink of the centre.
　　The situation was saved, for Darrow, by an abrupt rush ofmemories, and he gave way to a mirth which she as franklyechoed. "Of course," she gasped through her laughter, "Ionly said it to tease Jimmy----"Her amusement obscurely annoyed him. "Oh, you're allalike!" he exclaimed, moved by an unaccountable sense ofdisappointment.
　　She caught him up in a flash--she didn't miss things! "Yousay that because you think I'm spiteful and envious? Yes--Iwas envious of Lady Ulrica...Oh, not on account of you orJimmy Brance! Simply because she had almost all the thingsI've always wanted: clothes and fun and motors, andadmiration and yachting and Paris--why, Paris alone wouldbe enough!--And how do you suppose a girl can see that sortof thing about her day after day, and never wonder why somewomen, who don't seem to have any more right to it, have itall tumbled into their laps, while others are writing dinnerinvitations, and straightening out accounts, and copyingvisiting lists, and finishing golf-stockings, and matchingribbons, and seeing that the dogs get their sulphur? Onelooks in one's glass, after all!"She launched the closing words at him on a cry that liftedthem above the petulance of vanity; but his sense of herwords was lost in the surprise of her face. Under theflying clouds of her excitement it was no longer a shallowflower-cup but a darkening gleaming mirror that might giveback strange depths of feeling. The girl had stuff in her--he saw it; and she seemed to catch the perception in hiseyes.
　　"That's the kind of education I got at Mrs. Murrett's--andI never had any other," she said with a shrug.
　　"Good Lord--were you there so long?""Five years. I stuck it out longer than any of the others."She spoke as though it were something to be proud of.
　　"Well, thank God you're out of it now!"Again a just perceptible shadow crossed her face. "Yes--I'mout of it now fast enough.""And what--if I may ask--are you doing next?"She brooded a moment behind drooped lids; then, with a touchof hauteur: "I'm going to Paris: to study for the stage.""The stage?" Darrow stared at her, dismayed. All hisconfused contradictory impressions assumed a new aspect atthis announcement; and to hide his surprise he addedlightly: "Ah--then you will have Paris, after all!""Hardly Lady Ulrica's Paris. It s not likely to be roses,roses all the way.""It's not, indeed." Real compassion prompted him tocontinue: "Have you any--any influence you can count on?"She gave a somewhat flippant little laugh. "None but myown. I've never had any other to count on."He passed over the obvious reply. "But have you any ideahow the profession is over-crowded? I know I'm trite----""I've a very clear idea. But I couldn't go on as I was.""Of course not. But since, as you say, you'd stuck it outlonger than any of the others, couldn't you at least haveheld on till you were sure of some kind of an opening?"She made no reply for a moment; then she turned a listlessglance to the rain-beaten window. "Oughtn't we bestarting?" she asked, with a lofty assumption ofindifference that might have been Lady Ulrica's.
　　Darrow, surprised by the change, but accepting her rebuff asa phase of what he guessed to be a confused and tormentedmood, rose from his seat and lifted her jacket from thechair-back on which she had hung it to dry. As he held ittoward her she looked up at him quickly.
　　"The truth is, we quarrelled," she broke out, "and I leftlast night without my dinner--and without my salary.""Ah--" he groaned, with a sharp perception of all the sordiddangers that might attend such a break with Mrs. Murrett.
　　"And without a character!" she added, as she slipped herarms into the jacket. "And without a trunk, as it appears--but didn't you say that, before going, there'd be time foranother look at the station?"There was time for another look at the station; but the lookagain resulted in disappointment, since her trunk wasnowhere to be found in the huge heap disgorged by the newly-arrived London express. The fact caused Miss Viner amoment's perturbation; but she promptly adjusted herself tothe necessity of proceeding on her journey, and her decisionconfirmed Darrow's vague resolve to go to Paris instead ofretracing his way to London.
　　Miss Viner seemed cheered at the prospect of his company,and sustained by his offer to telegraph to Charing Cross forthe missing trunk; and he left her to wait in the fly whilehe hastened back to the telegraph office. The enquirydespatched, he was turning away from the desk when anotherthought struck him and he went back and indited a message tohis servant in London: "If any letters with French post-markreceived since departure forward immediately to TerminusHotel Gare du Nord Paris."Then he rejoined Miss Viner, and they drove off through therain to the pier.
Chapter 3
    Almost as soon as the train left Calais her head had droppedback into the corner, and she had fallen asleep.
　　Sitting opposite, in the compartment from which he hadcontrived to have other travellers excluded, Darrow lookedat her curiously. He had never seen a face that changed soquickly. A moment since it had danced like a field ofdaisies in a summer breeze; now, under the pallidoscillating light of the lamp overhead, it wore the hardstamp of experience, as of a soft thing chilled into shapebefore its curves had rounded: and it moved him to see thatcare already stole upon her when she slept.
　　The story she had imparted to him in the wheezing shakingcabin, and at the Calais buffet--where he had insisted onoffering her the dinner she had missed at Mrs. Murrett's--had given a distincter outline to her figure. From themoment of entering the New York boarding-school to which apreoccupied guardian had hastily consigned her after thedeath of her parents, she had found herself alone in a busyand indifferent world. Her youthful history might, in fact,have been summed up in the statement that everybody had beentoo busy to look after her. Her guardian, a drudge in a bigbanking house, was absorbed by "the office"; the guardian'swife, by her health and her religion; and an elder sister,Laura, married, unmarried, remarried, and pursuing, throughall these alternating phases, some vaguely "artistic" idealon which the guardian and his wife looked askance, had (asDarrow conjectured) taken their disapproval as a pretext fornot troubling herself about poor Sophy, to whom--perhaps forthis reason--she had remained the incarnation of remoteromantic possibilities.
　　In the course of time a sudden "stroke" of the guardian'shad thrown his personal affairs into a state of confusionfrom which--after his widely lamented death--it becameevident that it would not be possible to extricate hisward's inheritance. No one deplored this more sincerelythan his widow, who saw in it one more proof of herhusband's life having been sacrificed to the innumerableduties imposed on him, and who could hardly--but for thecounsels of religion--have brought herself to pardon theyoung girl for her indirect share in hastening his end.
　　Sophy did not resent this point of view. She was reallymuch sorrier for her guardian's death than for the loss ofher insignificant fortune. The latter had represented onlythe means of holding her in bondage, and its disappearancewas the occasion of her immediate plunge into the widebright sea of life surrounding the island-of her captivity.
　　She had first landed--thanks to the intervention of theladies who had directed her education--in a Fifth Avenueschool-room where, for a few months, she acted as a bufferbetween three autocratic infants and their bodyguard ofnurses and teachers. The too-pressing attentions of theirfather's valet had caused her to fly this sheltered spot,against the express advice of her educational superiors, whoimplied that, in their own case, refinement and self-respecthad always sufficed to keep the most ungovernable passionsat bay. The experience of the guardian's widow having beenprecisely similar, and the deplorable precedent of Laura'scareer being present to all their minds, none of theseladies felt any obligation to intervene farther in Sophy'saffairs; and she was accordingly left to her own resources.
　　A schoolmate from the Rocky Mountains, who was taking herfather and mother to Europe, had suggested Sophy'saccompanying them, and "going round" with her while herprogenitors, in the care of the courier, nursed theirailments at a fashionable bath. Darrow gathered that the"going round" with Mamie Hoke was a varied and divertingprocess; but this relatively brilliant phase of Sophy'scareer was cut short by the elopement of the inconsiderateMamie with a "matinee idol" who had followed her from NewYork, and by the precipitate return of her parents tonegotiate for the repurchase of their child.
　　It was then--after an interval of repose with compassionatebut impecunious American friends in Paris--that Miss Vinerhad been drawn into the turbid current of Mrs. Murrett'scareer. The impecunious compatriots had found Mrs. Murrettfor her, and it was partly on their account (because theywere such dears, and so unconscious, poor confiding things,of what they were letting her in for) that Sophy had stuckit out so long in the dreadful house in Chelsea. TheFarlows, she explained to Darrow, were the best friends shehad ever had (and the only ones who had ever "been decent"about Laura, whom they had seen once, and intenselyadmired); but even after twenty years of Paris they were themost incorrigibly inexperienced angels, and quite persuadedthat Mrs. Murrett was a woman of great intellectualeminence, and the house at Chelsea "the last of the salons"--Darrow knew what she meant? And she hadn't liked toundeceive them, knowing that to do so would be virtually tothrow herself back on their hands, and feeling, moreover,after her previous experiences, the urgent need of gaining,at any cost, a name for stability; besides which--she threwit off with a slight laugh--no other chance, in all theseyears, had happened to come to her.
　　She had brushed in this outline of her career with lightrapid strokes, and in a tone of fatalism oddly untinged bybitterness. Darrow perceived that she classified peopleaccording to their greater or less "luck" in life, but sheappeared to harbour no resentment against the undefinedpower which dispensed the gift in such unequal measure.
　　Things came one's way or they didn't; and meanwhile onecould only look on, and make the most of smallcompensations, such as watching "the show" at Mrs.
　　Murrett's, and talking over the Lady Ulricas and otherfootlight figures. And at any moment, of course, a turn ofthe kaleidoscope might suddenly toss a bright spangle intothe grey pattern of one's days.
　　This light-hearted philosophy was not without charm to ayoung man accustomed to more traditional views. GeorgeDarrow had had a fairly varied experience of feminine types,but the women he had frequented had either been pronouncedly"ladies" or they had not. Grateful to both for ministeringto the more complex masculine nature, and disposed to assumethat they had been evolved, if not designed, to that end, hehad instinctively kept the two groups apart in his mind,avoiding that intermediate society which attempts toconciliate both theories of life. "Bohemianism" seemed tohim a cheaper convention than the other two, and he liked,above all, people who went as far as they could in their ownline--liked his "ladies" and their rivals to be equallyunashamed of showing for exactly what they were. He had notindeed--the fact of Lady Ulrica was there to remind him--been without his experience of a third type; but thatexperience had left him with a contemptuous distaste for thewoman who uses the privileges of one class to shelter thecustoms of another.
　　As to young girls, he had never thought much about themsince his early love for the girl who had become Mrs. Leath.
　　That episode seemed, as he looked back on it, to bear nomore relation to reality than a pale decorative design tothe confused richness of a summer landscape. He no longerunderstood the violent impulses and dreamy pauses of his ownyoung heart, or the inscrutable abandonments and reluctancesof hers. He had known a moment of anguish at losing her--themad plunge of youthful instincts against the barrier offate; but the first wave of stronger sensation had sweptaway all but the outline of their story, and the memory ofAnna Summers had made the image of the young girl sacred,but the class uninteresting.
　　Such generalisations belonged, however, to an earlier stageof his experience. The more he saw of life the moreincalculable he found it; and he had learned to yield to hisimpressions without feeling the youthful need of relatingthem to others. It was the girl in the opposite seat whohad roused in him the dormant habit of comparison. She wasdistinguished from the daughters of wealth by her avowedacquaintance with the real business of living, a familiarityas different as possible from their theoretical proficiency;yet it seemed to Darrow that her experience had made herfree without hardness and self-assured withoutassertiveness.
　　The rush into Amiens, and the flash of the station lightsinto their compartment, broke Miss Viner's sleep, andwithout changing her position she lifted her lids and lookedat Darrow. There was neither surprise nor bewilderment inthe look. She seemed instantly conscious, not so much ofwhere she was, as of the fact that she was with him; andthat fact seemed enough to reassure her. She did not eventurn her head to look out; her eyes continued to rest on himwith a vague smile which appeared to light her face fromwithin, while her lips kept their sleepy droop.
　　Shouts and the hurried tread of travellers came to themthrough the confusing cross-lights of the platform. A headappeared at the window, and Darrow threw himself forward todefend their solitude; but the intruder was only a trainhand going his round of inspection. He passed on, and thelights and cries of the station dropped away, merged in awider haze and a hollower resonance, as the train gathereditself up with a long shake and rolled out again into thedarkness.
　　Miss Viner's head sank back against the cushion, pushing outa dusky wave of hair above her forehead. The swaying of thetrain loosened a lock over her ear, and she shook it backwith a movement like a boy's, while her gaze still rested onher companion.
　　"You're not too tired?"She shook her head with a smile.
　　"We shall be in before midnight. We're very nearly ontime." He verified the statement by holding up his watch tothe lamp.
　　She nodded dreamily. "It's all right. I telegraphed Mrs.
　　Farlow that they mustn't think of coming to the station; butthey'll have told the concierge to look out for me.""You'll let me drive you there?"She nodded again, and her eyes closed. It was very pleasantto Darrow that she made no effort to talk or to dissembleher sleepiness. He sat watching her till the upper lashesmet and mingled with the lower, and their blent shadow layon her cheek; then he stood up and drew the curtain over thelamp, drowning the compartment in a bluish twilight.
　　As he sank back into his seat he thought how differentlyAnna Summers--or even Anna Leath--would have behaved. Shewould not have talked too much; she would not have beeneither restless or embarrassed; but her adaptability, herappropriateness, would not have been nature but "tact." Theoddness of the situation would have made sleep impossible,or, if weariness had overcome her for a moment, she wouldhave waked with a start, wondering where she was, and howshe had come there, and if her hair were tidy; and nothingshort of hairpins and a glass would have restored her self-possession...
　　The reflection set him wondering whether the "sheltered"girl's bringing-up might not unfit her for all subsequentcontact with life. How much nearer to it had Mrs. Leathbeen brought by marriage and motherhood, and the passage offourteen years? What were all her reticences and evasionsbut the result of the deadening process of forming a "lady"?
　　The freshness he had marvelled at was like the unnaturalwhiteness of flowers forced in the dark.
　　As he looked back at their few days together he saw thattheir intercourse had been marked, on her part, by the samehesitations and reserves which had chilled their earlierintimacy. Once more they had had their hour together andshe had wasted it. As in her girlhood, her eyes had madepromises which her lips were afraid to keep. She was stillafraid of life, of its ruthlessness, its danger and mystery.
　　She was still the petted little girl who cannot be leftalone in the dark...His memory flew back to their youthfulstory, and long-forgotten details took shape before him.
　　How frail and faint the picture was! They seemed, he andshe, like the ghostly lovers of the Grecian Urn, foreverpursuing without ever clasping each other. To this day hedid not quite know what had parted them: the break had beenas fortuitous as the fluttering apart of two seed-vessels ona wave of summer air...
　　The very slightness, vagueness, of the memory gave it anadded poignancy. He felt the mystic pang of the parent fora child which has just breathed and died. Why had ithappened thus, when the least shifting of influences mighthave made it all so different? If she had been given to himthen he would have put warmth in her veins and light in hereyes: would have made her a woman through and through.
　　Musing thus, he had the sense of waste that is the bitterestharvest of experience. A love like his might have given herthe divine gift of self-renewal; and now he saw her fated towane into old age repeating the same gestures, echoing thewords she had always heard, and perhaps never guessing that,just outside her glazed and curtained consciousness, liferolled away, a vast blackness starred with lights, like thenight landscape beyond the windows of the train.
　　The engine lowered its speed for the passage through asleeping station. In the light of the platform lamp Darrowlooked across at his companion. Her head had dropped towardone shoulder, and her lips were just far enough apart forthe reflection of the upper one to deepen the colour of theother. The jolting of the train had again shaken loose thelock above her ear. It danced on her cheek like the flit ofa brown wing over flowers, and Darrow felt an intense desireto lean forward and put it back behind her ear.
Chapter 4
    As their motor-cab, on the way from the Gare du Nord, turnedinto the central glitter of the Boulevard, Darrow had bentover to point out an incandescent threshold.
　　"There!"Above the doorway, an arch of flame flashed out the name ofa great actress, whose closing performances in a play ofunusual originality had been the theme of long articles inthe Paris papers which Darrow had tossed into theircompartment at Calais.
　　"That's what you must see before you're twenty-four hoursolder!"The girl followed his gesture eagerly. She was all awakeand alive now, as if the heady rumours of the streets, withtheir long effervescences of light, had passed into herveins like wine.
　　"Cerdine? Is that where she acts?" She put her head out ofthe window, straining back for a glimpse of the sacredthreshold. As they flew past it she sank into her seat witha satisfied sigh.
　　"It's delicious enough just to KNOW she's there! I'venever seen her, you know. When I was here with Mamie Hokewe never went anywhere but to the music halls, because shecouldn't understand any French; and when I came backafterward to the Farlows' I was dead broke, and couldn'tafford the play, and neither could they; so the only chancewe had was when friends of theirs invited us--and once itwas to see a tragedy by a Roumanian lady, and the other timeit was for 'L'Ami Fritz' at the Francais."Darrow laughed. "You must do better than that now. 'LeVertige' is a fine thing, and Cerdine gets some wonderfuleffects out of it. You must come with me tomorrow eveningto see it--with your friends, of course.--That is," headded, "if there's any sort of chance of getting seats."The flash of a street lamp lit up her radiant face. "Oh,will you really take us? What fun to think that it'stomorrow already!"It was wonderfully pleasant to be able to give suchpleasure. Darrow was not rich, but it was almost impossiblefor him to picture the state of persons with tastes andperceptions like his own, to whom an evening at the theatrewas an unattainable indulgence. There floated through hismind an answer of Mrs. Leath's to his enquiry whether shehad seen the play in question. "No. I meant to, of course,but one is so overwhelmed with things in Paris. And thenI'm rather sick of Cerdine--one is always being dragged tosee her."That, among the people he frequented, was the usual attitudetoward such opportunities. There were too many, they were anuisance, one had to defend one's self! He even rememberedwondering, at the moment, whether to a really fine taste theexceptional thing could ever become indifferent throughhabit; whether the appetite for beauty was so soon dulledthat it could be kept alive only by privation. Here, at anyrate, was a fine chance to experiment with such a hunger: healmost wished he might stay on in Paris long enough to takethe measure of Miss Viner's receptivity.
　　She was still dwelling on his promise, "It's too beautifulof you! Oh, don't you THINK you'll be able to getseats?" And then, after a pause of brimming appreciation: "Iwonder if you'll think me horrid?--but it may be my onlychance; and if you can't get places for us all, wouldn't youperhaps just take ME? After all, the Farlows may haveseen it!"He had not, of course, thought her horrid, but only the moreengaging, for being so natural, and so unashamed of showingthe frank greed of her famished youth. "Oh, you shall gosomehow!" he had gaily promised her; and she had droppedback with a sigh of pleasure as their cab passed into thedimly-lit streets of the Farlows' quarter beyond theSeine...
　　This little passage came back to him the next morning, as heopened his hotel window on the early roar of the NorthernTerminus.
　　The girl was there, in the room next to him. That had beenthe first point in his waking consciousness. The second wasa sense of relief at the obligation imposed on him by thisunexpected turn of everts. To wake to the necessity ofaction, to postpone perforce the fruitless contemplation ofhis private grievance, was cause enough for gratitude, evenif the small adventure in which he found himself involvedhad not, on its own merits, roused an instinctive curiosityto see it through.
　　When he and his companion, the night before, had reached theFarlows' door in the rue de la Chaise, it was only to find,after repeated assaults on its panels, that the Farlows wereno longer there. They had moved away the week before, notonly from their apartment but from Paris; and Miss Viner'sbreach with Mrs. Murrett had been too sudden to permit herletter and telegram to overtake them. Both communications,no doubt, still reposed in a pigeon-hole of the loge;but its custodian, when drawn from his lair, sulkilydeclined to let Miss Viner verify the fact, and only flungout, in return for Darrow's bribe, the statement that theAmericans had gone to Joigny.
　　To pursue them there at that hour was manifestly impossible,and Miss Viner, disturbed but not disconcerted by this newobstacle, had quite simply acceded to Darrow's suggestionthat she should return for what remained of the night to thehotel where he had sent his luggage.
　　The drive back through the dark hush before dawn, with thenocturnal blaze of the Boulevard fading around them like thefalse lights of a magician's palace, had so played on herimpressionability that she seemed to give no farther thoughtto her own predicament. Darrow noticed that she did notfeel the beauty and mystery of the spectacle as much as itspressure of human significance, all its hidden implicationsof emotion and adventure. As they passed the shadowycolonnade of the Francais, remote and temple-like in thepaling lights, he felt a clutch on his arm, and heard thecry: "There are things THERE that I want so desperatelyto see!" and all the way back to the hotel she continued toquestion him, with shrewd precision and an artless thirstfor detail, about the theatrical life of Paris. He wasstruck afresh, as he listened, by the way in which hernaturalness eased the situation of constraint, leaving to itonly a pleasant savour of good fellowship. It was the kindof episode that one might, in advance, have characterized as"awkward", yet that was proving, in the event, as muchoutside such definitions as a sunrise stroll with a dryad ina dew-drenched forest; and Darrow reflected that mankindwould never have needed to invent tact if it had not firstinvented social complications.
　　It had been understood, with his good-night to Miss Viner,that the next morning he was to look up the Joigny trains,and see her safely to the station; but, while he breakfastedand waited for a time-table, he recalled again her cry ofjoy at the prospect of seeing Cerdine. It was certainly apity, since that most elusive and incalculable of artistswas leaving the next week for South America, to miss whatmight be a last sight of her in her greatest part; andDarrow, having dressed and made the requisite excerpts fromthe time-table, decided to carry the result of hisdeliberations to his neighbour's door.
　　It instantly opened at his knock, and she came forth lookingas if she had been plunged into some sparkling element whichhad curled up all her drooping tendrils and wrapped her in ashimmer of fresh leaves.
　　"Well, what do you think of me?" she cried; and with a handat her waist she spun about as if to show off some miracleof Parisian dress-making.
　　"I think the missing trunk has come--and that it was worthwaiting for!""You DO like my dress?""I adore it! I always adore new dresses--why, you don't meanto say it's NOT a new one?"She laughed out her triumph.
　　"No, no, no! My trunk hasn't come, and this is only my oldrag of yesterday--but I never knew the trick to fail!" And,as he stared: "You see," she joyously explained, "I'vealways had to dress in all kinds of dreary left-overs, andsometimes, when everybody else was smart and new, it used tomake me awfully miserable. So one day, when Mrs. Murrettdragged me down unexpectedly to fill a place at dinner, Isuddenly thought I'd try spinning around like that, and sayto every one: 'WELL, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ME?' And, doyou know, they were all taken in, including Mrs. Murrett,who didn't recognize my old turned and dyed rags, and toldme afterward it was awfully bad form to dress as if I weresomebody that people would expect to know! And ever since,whenever I've particularly wanted to look nice, I've justasked people what they thought of my new frock; and they'realways, always taken in!"She dramatized her explanation so vividly that Darrow feltas if his point were gained.
　　"Ah, but this confirms your vocation--of course," he cried,"you must see Cerdine!" and, seeing her face fall at thisreminder of the change in her prospects, he hastened to setforth his plan. As he did so, he saw how easy it was toexplain things to her. She would either accept hissuggestion, or she would not: but at least she would wasteno time in protestations and objections, or any vainsacrifice to the idols of conformity. The conviction thatone could, on any given point, almost predicate this of her,gave him the sense of having advanced far enough in herintimacy to urge his arguments against a hasty pursuit ofher friends.
　　Yes, it would certainly be foolish--she at once agreed--inthe case of such dear indefinite angels as the Farlows, todash off after them without more positive proof that theywere established at Joigny, and so established that theycould take her in. She owned it was but too probable thatthey had gone there to "cut down", and might be doing so inquarters too contracted to receive her; and it would beunfair, on that chance, to impose herself on themunannounced. The simplest way of getting farther light onthe question would be to go back to the rue de la Chaise,where, at that more conversable hour, the conciergemight be less chary of detail; and she could decide on hernext step in the light of such facts as he imparted.
　　Point by point, she fell in with the suggestion,recognizing, in the light of their unexplained flight, thatthe Farlows might indeed be in a situation on which onecould not too rashly intrude. Her concern for her friendsseemed to have effaced all thought of herself, and thislittle indication of character gave Darrow a quitedisproportionate pleasure. She agreed that it would be wellto go at once to the rue de la Chaise, but met his proposalthat they should drive by the declaration that it was a"waste" not to walk in Paris; so they set off on footthrough the cheerful tumult of the streets.
　　The walk was long enough for him to learn many things abouther. The storm of the previous night had cleared the air,and Paris shone in morning beauty under a sky that was allbroad wet washes of white and blue; but Darrow again noticedthat her visual sensitiveness was less keen than her feelingfor what he was sure the good Farlows--whom he alreadyseemed to know--would have called "the human interest." Sheseemed hardly conscious of sensations of form and colour, orof any imaginative suggestion, and the spectacle beforethem--always, in its scenic splendour, so moving to hercompanion--broke up, under her scrutiny, into a thousandminor points: the things in the shops, the types ofcharacter and manner of occupation shown in the passingfaces, the street signs, the names of the hotels theypassed, the motley brightness of the flower-carts, theidentity of the churches and public buildings that caughther eye. But what she liked best, he divined, was the merefact of being free to walk abroad in the bright air, hertongue rattling on as it pleased, while her feet kept timeto the mighty orchestration of the city's sounds. Herdelight in the fresh air, in the freedom, light and sparkleof the morning, gave him a sudden insight into her stifledpast; nor was it indifferent to him to perceive how much hispresence evidently added to her enjoyment. If only as asympathetic ear, he guessed what he must be worth to her.
　　The girl had been dying for some one to talk to, some onebefore whom she could unfold and shake out to the light herpoor little shut-away emotions. Years of repression wererevealed in her sudden burst of confidence; and the pity sheinspired made Darrow long to fill her few free hours to thebrim.
　　She had the gift of rapid definition, and his questions asto the life she had led with the Farlows, during theinterregnum between the Hoke and Murrett eras, called upbefore him a queer little corner of Parisian existence. TheFarlows themselves--he a painter, she a "magazine writer"--rose before him in all their incorruptible simplicity: anelderly New England couple, with vague yearnings forenfranchisement, who lived in Paris as if it were aMassachusetts suburb, and dwelt hopefully on the "higherside" of the Gallic nature. With equal vividness she setbefore him the component figures of the circle from whichMrs. Farlow drew the "Inner Glimpses of French Life"appearing over her name in a leading New England journal:
　　the Roumanian lady who had sent them tickets for hertragedy, an elderly French gentleman who, on the strength ofa week's stay at Folkestone, translated English fiction forthe provincial press, a lady from Wichita, Kansas, whoadvocated free love and the abolition of the corset, aclergyman's widow from Torquay who had written an "EnglishLadies' Guide to Foreign Galleries" and a Russian sculptorwho lived on nuts and was "almost certainly" an anarchist.
　　It was this nucleus, and its outer ring of musical,architectural and other American students, which posedsuccessively to Mrs. Farlow's versatile fancy as a centre of"University Life", a "Salon of the Faubourg St. Germain", agroup of Parisian "Intellectuals" or a "Cross-section ofMontmartre"; but even her faculty for extracting from it themost varied literary effects had not sufficed to create apermanent demand for the "Inner Glimpses", and there weredays when--Mr. Farlow's landscapes being equallyunmarketable--a temporary withdrawal to the country(subsequently utilized as "Peeps into Chateau Life") becamenecessary to the courageous couple.
　　Five years of Mrs. Murrett's world, while increasing Sophy'stenderness for the Farlows, had left her with few illusionsas to their power of advancing her fortunes; and she did notconceal from Darrow that her theatrical projects were of thevaguest. They hung mainly on the problematical good-will ofan ancient comedienne, with whom Mrs. Farlow had a slightacquaintance (extensively utilized in "Stars of the FrenchFootlights" and "Behind the Scenes at the Francais"), andwho had once, with signs of approval, heard Miss Vinerrecite the Nuit de Mai.
　　"But of course I know how much that's worth," the girl brokeoff, with one of her flashes of shrewdness. "And besides,it isn't likely that a poor old fossil like Mme. Dolle couldget anybody to listen to her now, even if she really thoughtI had talent. But she might introduce me to people; or atleast give me a few tips. If I could manage to earn enoughto pay for lessons I'd go straight to some of the big peopleand work with them. I'm rather hoping the Farlows may findme a chance of that kind--an engagement with some Americanfamily in Paris who would want to be 'gone round' with likethe Hokes, and who'd leave me time enough to study."In the rue de la Chaise they learned little except the exactaddress of the Farlows, and the fact that they had sub-lettheir flat before leaving. This information obtained,Darrow proposed to Miss Viner that they should stroll alongthe quays to a little restaurant looking out on the Seine,and there, over the plat du jour, consider the next stepto be taken. The long walk had given her cheeks a glowindicative of wholesome hunger, and she made no difficultyabout satisfying it in Darrow's company. Regaining theriver they walked on in the direction of Notre Dame, delayednow and again by the young man's irresistible tendency tolinger over the bookstalls, and by his ever-fresh responseto the shifting beauties of the scene. For two years hiseyes had been subdued to the atmospheric effects of London,to the mysterious fusion of darkly-piled city and low-lyingbituminous sky; and the transparency of the French air,which left the green gardens and silvery stones soclassically clear yet so softly harmonized, struck him ashaving a kind of conscious intelligence. Every line of thearchitecture, every arch of the bridges, the very sweep ofthe strong bright river between them, while contributing tothis effect, sent forth each a separate appeal to somesensitive memory; so that, for Darrow, a walk through theParis streets was always like the unrolling of a vasttapestry from which countless stored fragrances were shakenout.
　　It was a proof of the richness and multiplicity of thespectacle that it served, without incongruity, for sodifferent a purpose as the background of Miss Viner'senjoyment. As a mere drop-scene for her personal adventureit was just as much in its place as in the evocation ofgreat perspectives of feeling. For her, as he againperceived when they were seated at their table in a lowwindow above the Seine, Paris was "Paris" by virtue of allits entertaining details, its endless ingenuities ofpleasantness. Where else, for instance, could one find thedear little dishes of hors d'oeuvre, the symmetrically-laid anchovies and radishes, the thin golden shells ofbutter, or the wood strawberries and brown jars of creamthat gave to their repast the last refinement of rusticity?
　　Hadn't he noticed, she asked, that cooking always expressedthe national character, and that French food was clever andamusing just because the people were? And in private houses,everywhere, how the dishes always resembled the talk--howthe very same platitudes seemed to go into people's mouthsand come out of them? Couldn't he see just what kind of menuit would make, if a fairy waved a wand and suddenly turnedthe conversation at a London dinner into joints andpuddings? She always thought it a good sign when peopleliked Irish stew; it meant that they enjoyed changes andsurprises, and taking life as it came; and such a beautifulParisian version of the dish as the navarin that wasjust being set before them was like the very best kind oftalk--the kind when one could never tell before-hand justwhat was going to be said!
　　Darrow, as he watched her enjoyment of their innocent feast,wondered if her vividness and vivacity were signs of hercalling. She was the kind of girl in whom certain peoplewould instantly have recognized the histrionic gift. Butexperience had led him to think that, except at the creativemoment, the divine flame burns low in its possessors. Theone or two really intelligent actresses he had known hadstruck him, in conversation, as either bovine or primitively"jolly". He had a notion that, save in the mind of genius,the creative process absorbs too much of the whole stuff ofbeing to leave much surplus for personal expression; and thegirl before him, with her changing face and flexiblefancies, seemed destined to work in life itself rather thanin any of its counterfeits.
　　The coffee and liqueurs were already on the table when hermind suddenly sprang back to the Farlows. She jumped upwith one of her subversive movements and declared that shemust telegraph at once. Darrow called for writing materialsand room was made at her elbow for the parched ink-bottleand saturated blotter of the Parisian restaurant; but themere sight of these jaded implements seemed to paralyze MissViner's faculties. She hung over the telegraph-form withanxiously-drawn brow, the tip of the pen-handle pressedagainst her lip; and at length she raised her troubled eyesto Darrow's.
　　"I simply can't think how to say it.""What--that you're staying over to see Cerdine?""But AM I--am I, really?" The joy of it flamed over herface.
　　Darrow looked at his watch. "You could hardly get an answerto your telegram in time to take a train to Joigny thisafternoon, even if you found your friends could have you."She mused for a moment, tapping her lip with the pen. "But Imust let them know I'm here. I must find out as soon aspossible if they CAN, have me." She laid the pen downdespairingly. "I never COULD write a telegram!" shesighed.
　　"Try a letter, then and tell them you'll arrive tomorrow."This suggestion produced immediate relief, and she gave anenergetic dab at the ink-bottle; but after another intervalof uncertain scratching she paused again."Oh, it's fearful!
　　I don't know what on earth to say. I wouldn't for the worldhave them know how beastly Mrs. Murrett's been."Darrow did not think it necessary to answer. It was nobusiness of his, after all. He lit a cigar and leaned backin his seat, letting his eyes take their fill of indolentpleasure. In the throes of invention she had pushed backher hat, loosening the stray lock which had invited histouch the night before. After looking at it for a while hestood up and wandered to the window.
　　Behind him he heard her pen scrape on.
　　"I don't want to worry them--I'm so certain they've gotbothers of their own." The faltering scratches ceased again.
　　"I wish I weren't such an idiot about writing: all the wordsget frightened and scurry away when I try to catch them."He glanced back at her with a smile as she bent above hertask like a school-girl struggling with a "composition." Herflushed cheek and frowning brow showed that her difficultywas genuine and not an artless device to draw him to herside. She was really powerless to put her thoughts inwriting, and the inability seemed characteristic of herquick impressionable mind, and of the incessant come-and-goof her sensations. He thought of Anna Leath's letters, orrather of the few he had received, years ago, from the girlwho had been Anna Summers. He saw the slender firm strokesof the pen, recalled the clear structure of the phrases,and, by an abrupt association of ideas, remembered that, atthat very hour, just such a document might be awaiting himat the hotel.
　　What if it were there, indeed, and had brought him acomplete explanation of her telegram? The revulsion offeeling produced by this thought made him look at the girlwith sudden impatience. She struck him as positivelystupid, and he wondered how he could have wasted half hisday with her, when all the while Mrs. Leath's letter mightbe lying on his table. At that moment, if he could havechosen, he would have left his companion on the spot; but hehad her on his hands, and must accept the consequences.
　　Some odd intuition seemed to make her conscious of hischange of mood, for she sprang from her seat, crumpling theletter in her hand.
　　"I'm too stupid; but I won't keep you any longer. I'll goback to the hotel and write there."Her colour deepened, and for the first time, as their eyesmet, he noticed a faint embarrassment in hers. Could it bethat his nearness was, after all, the cause of herconfusion? The thought turned his vague impatience with herinto a definite resentment toward himself. There was reallyno excuse for his having blundered into such an adventure.
　　Why had he not shipped the girl off to Joigny by the eveningtrain, instead of urging her to delay, and using Cerdine asa pretext? Paris was full of people he knew, and hisannoyance was increased by the thought that some friend ofMrs. Leath's might see him at the play, and report hispresence there with a suspiciously good-looking companion.
　　The idea was distinctly disagreeable: he did not want thewoman he adored to think he could forget her for a moment.
　　And by this time he had fully persuaded himself that aletter from her was awaiting him, and had even gone so faras to imagine that its contents might annul the writer'stelegraphed injunction, and call him to her side at once...
Chapter 5
    At the porter's desk a brief "Pas de lettres" felldestructively on the fabric of these hopes.
　　Mrs. Leath had not written--she had not taken the trouble toexplain her telegram. Darrow turned away with a sharp pangof humiliation. Her frugal silence mocked his prodigalityof hopes and fears. He had put his question to the porteronce before, on returning to the hotel after luncheon; andnow, coming back again in the late afternoon, he was met bythe same denial. The second post was in, and had broughthim nothing.
　　A glance at his watch showed that he had barely time todress before taking Miss Viner out to dine; but as he turnedto the lift a new thought struck him, and hurrying back intothe hall he dashed off another telegram to his servant:
　　"Have you forwarded any letter with French postmark today?
　　Telegraph answer Terminus."Some kind of reply would be certain to reach him on hisreturn from the theatre, and he would then know definitelywhether Mrs. Leath meant to write or not. He hastened up tohis room and dressed with a lighter heart.
　　Miss Viner's vagrant trunk had finally found its way to itsowner; and, clad in such modest splendour as it furnished,she shone at Darrow across their restaurant table. In thereaction of his wounded vanity he found her prettier andmore interesting than before. Her dress, sloping away fromthe throat, showed the graceful set of her head on itsslender neck, and the wide brim of her hat arched above herhair like a dusky halo. Pleasure danced in her eyes and onher lips, and as she shone on him between the candle-shadesDarrow felt that he should not be at all sorry to be seenwith her in public. He even sent a careless glance abouthim in the vague hope that it might fall on an acquaintance.
　　At the theatre her vivacity sank into a breathless hush, andshe sat intent in her corner of their baignoire, withthe gaze of a neophyte about to be initiated into the sacredmysteries. Darrow placed himself behind her, that he mightcatch her profile between himself and the stage. He wastouched by the youthful seriousness of her expression. Inspite of the experiences she must have had, and of thetwenty-four years to which she owned, she struck him asintrinsically young; and he wondered how so evanescent aquality could have been preserved in the desiccating Murrettair. As the play progressed he noticed that her immobilitywas traversed by swift flashes of perception. She was notmissing anything, and her intensity of attention whenCerdine was on the stage drew an anxious line between herbrows.
　　After the first act she remained for a few minutes rapt andmotionless; then she turned to her companion with a quickpatter of questions. He gathered from them that she hadbeen less interested in following the general drift of theplay than in observing the details of its interpretation.
　　Every gesture and inflection of the great actress's had beenmarked and analyzed; and Darrow felt a secret gratificationin being appealed to as an authority on the histrionic art.
　　His interest in it had hitherto been merely that of thecultivated young man curious of all forms of artisticexpression; but in reply to her questions he found things tosay about it which evidently struck his listener asimpressive and original, and with which he himself was not,on the whole, dissatisfied. Miss Viner was much moreconcerned to hear his views than to express her own, and thedeference with which she received his comments called fromhim more ideas about the theatre than he had ever supposedhimself to possess.
　　With the second act she began to give more attention to thedevelopment of the play, though her interest was excitedrather by what she called "the story" than by the conflictof character producing it. Oddly combined with her sharpapprehension of things theatrical, her knowledge oftechnical "dodges" and green-room precedents, her glibnessabout "lines" and "curtains", was the primitive simplicityof her attitude toward the tale itself, as toward somethingthat was "really happening" and at which one assisted as ata street-accident or a quarrel overheard in the next room.
　　She wanted to know if Darrow thought the lovers "reallywould" be involved in the catastrophe that threatened them,and when he reminded her that his predictions weredisqualified by his having already seen the play, sheexclaimed: "Oh, then, please don't tell me what's going tohappen!" and the next moment was questioning him aboutCerdine's theatrical situation and her private history. Onthe latter point some of her enquiries were of a kind thatit is not in the habit of young girls to make, or even toknow how to make; but her apparent unconsciousness of thefact seemed rather to reflect on her past associates than onherself.
　　When the second act was over, Darrow suggested their takinga turn in the foyer; and seated on one of its crampedred velvet sofas they watched the crowd surge up and down ina glare of lights and gilding. Then, as she complained ofthe heat, he led her through the press to the congestedcafe at the foot of the stairs, where orangeades werethrust at them between the shoulders of packedconsommateurs and Darrow, lighting a cigarette while shesucked her straw, knew the primitive complacency of the manat whose companion other men stare.
　　On a corner of their table lay a smeared copy of atheatrical journal. It caught Sophy's eye and after poringover the page she looked up with an excited exclamation.
　　'They're giving Oedipe tomorrow afternoon at theFrancais! I suppose you've seen it heaps and heaps oftimes?"He smiled back at her. "You must see it too. We'll gotomorrow."She sighed at his suggestion, but without discarding it.
　　"How can I? The last train for Joigny leaves at four.""But you don't know yet that your friends will want you.""I shall know tomorrow early. I asked Mrs. Farlow totelegraph as soon as she got my letter."A twinge of compunction shot through Darrow. Her wordsrecalled to him that on their return to the hotel afterluncheon she had given him her letter to post, and that hehad never thought of it again. No doubt it was still in thepocket of the coat he had taken off when he dressed fordinner. In his perturbation he pushed back his chair, andthe movement made her look up at him.
　　"What's the matter?""Nothing. Only--you know I don't fancy that letter can havecaught this afternoon's post.""Not caught it? Why not?""Why, I'm afraid it will have been too late." He bent hishead to light another cigarette.
　　She struck her hands together with a gesture which, to hisamusement, he noticed she had caught from Cerdine.
　　"Oh, dear, I hadn't thought of that! But surely it willreach them in the morning?""Some time in the morning, I suppose. You know the Frenchprovincial post is never in a hurry. I don't believe yourletter would have been delivered this evening in any case."As this idea occurred to him he felt himself almostabsolved.
　　"Perhaps, then, I ought to have telegraphed?""I'll telegraph for you in the morning if you say so."The bell announcing the close of the entr'-acte shrilledthrough the cafe, and she sprang to her feet.
　　"Oh, come, come! We mustn't miss it!"Instantly forgetful of the Farlows, she slipped her armthrough his and turned to push her way back to the theatre.
　　As soon as the curtain went up she as promptly forgot hercompanion. Watching her from the corner to which he hadreturned, Darrow saw that great waves of sensation werebeating deliciously against her brain. It was as thoughevery starved sensibility were throwing out feelers to themounting tide; as though everything she was seeing, hearing,imagining, rushed in to fill the void of all she had alwaysbeen denied.
　　Darrow, as he observed her, again felt a detached enjoymentin her pleasure. She was an extraordinary conductor ofsensation: she seemed to transmit it physically, inemanations that set the blood dancing in his veins. He hadnot often had the opportunity of studying the effects of aperfectly fresh impression on so responsive a temperament,and he felt a fleeting desire to make its chords vibrate forhis own amusement.
　　At the end of the next act she discovered with dismay thatin their transit to the cafe she had lost the beautifulpictured programme he had bought for her. She wanted to goback and hunt for it, but Darrow assured her that he wouldhave no trouble in getting her another. When he went out inquest of it she followed him protestingly to the door of thebox, and he saw that she was distressed at the thought ofhis having to spend an additional franc for her. Thisfrugality smote Darrow by its contrast to her natural brightprofusion; and again he felt the desire to right so clumsyan injustice.
　　When he returned to the box she was still standing in thedoorway, and he noticed that his were not the only eyesattracted to her. Then another impression sharply divertedhis attention. Above the fagged faces of the Parisian crowdhe had caught the fresh fair countenance of Owen Leathsignalling a joyful recognition. The young man, slim andeager, had detached himself from two companions of his owntype, and was seeking to push through the press to his step-mother's friend. The encounter, to Darrow, could hardlyhave been more inopportune; it woke in him a confusion offeelings of which only the uppermost was allayed by seeingSophy Viner, as if instinctively warned, melt back into theshadow of their box.
　　A minute later Owen Leath was at his side. "I was sure itwas you! Such luck to run across you! Won't you come offwith us to supper after it's over? Montmartre, or whereverelse you please. Those two chaps over there are friends ofmine, at the Beaux Arts; both of them rather good fellows--and we'd be so glad----"For half a second Darrow read in his hospitable eye thetermination "if you'd bring the lady too"; then it deflectedinto: "We'd all be so glad if you'd come."Darrow, excusing himself with thanks, lingered on for a fewminutes' chat, in which every word, and every tone of hiscompanion's voice, was like a sharp light flashed intoaching eyes. He was glad when the bell called the audienceto their seats, and young Leath left him with the friendlyquestion: "We'll see you at Givre later on?"When he rejoined Miss Viner, Darrow's first care was to findout, by a rapid inspection of the house, whether OwenLeath's seat had given him a view of their box. But theyoung man was not visible from it, and Darrow concluded thathe had been recognized in the corridor and not at hiscompanion's side. He scarcely knew why it seemed to him soimportant that this point should be settled; certainly hissense of reassurance was less due to regard for Miss Vinerthan to the persistent vision of grave offended eyes...
　　During the drive back to the hotel this vision waspersistently kept before him by the thought that the eveningpost might have brought a letter from Mrs. Leath. Even ifno letter had yet come, his servant might have telegraphedto say that one was on its way; and at the thought hisinterest in the girl at his side again cooled to thefraternal, the almost fatherly. She was no more to him,after all, than an appealing young creature to whom it wasmildly agreeable to have offered an evening's diversion; andwhen, as they rolled into the illuminated court of thehotel, she turned with a quick movement which brought herhappy face close to his, he leaned away, affecting to beabsorbed in opening the door of the cab.
　　At the desk the night porter, after a vain search throughthe pigeon-holes, was disposed to think that a letter ortelegram had in fact been sent up for the gentleman; andDarrow, at the announcement, could hardly wait to ascend tohis room. Upstairs, he and his companion had the longdimly-lit corridor to themselves, and Sophy paused on herthreshold, gathering up in one hand the pale folds of hercloak, while she held the other out to Darrow.
　　"If the telegram comes early I shall be off by the firsttrain; so I suppose this is good-bye," she said, her eyesdimmed by a little shadow of regret.
　　Darrow, with a renewed start of contrition, perceived thathe had again forgotten her letter; and as their hands met hevowed to himself that the moment she had left him he woulddash down stairs to post it.
　　"Oh, I'll see you in the morning, of course!"A tremor of pleasure crossed her face as he stood beforeher, smiling a little uncertainly.
　　"At any rate," she said, "I want to thank you now for mygood day."He felt in her hand the same tremor he had seen in her face.
　　"But it's YOU, on the contrary--" he began, lifting thehand to his lips.
　　As he dropped it, and their eyes met, something passedthrough hers that was like a light carried rapidly behind acurtained window.
　　"Good night; you must be awfully tired," he said with afriendly abruptness, turning away without even waiting tosee her pass into her room. He unlocked his door, andstumbling over the threshold groped in the darkness for theelectric button. The light showed him a telegram on thetable, and he forgot everything else as he caught it up.
　　"No letter from France," the message read.
　　It fell from Darrow's hand to the floor, and he dropped intoa chair by the table and sat gazing at the dingy drab andolive pattern of the carpet. She had not written, then; shehad not written, and it was manifest now that she did notmean to write. If she had had any intention of explainingher telegram she would certainly, within twenty-four hours,have followed it up by a letter. But she evidently did notintend to explain it, and her silence could mean only thatshe had no explanation to give, or else that she was tooindifferent to be aware that one was needed.
　　Darrow, face to face with these alternatives, felt arecrudescence of boyish misery. It was no longer his hurtvanity that cried out. He told himself that he could haveborne an equal amount of pain, if only it had left Mrs.
　　Leath's image untouched; but he could not bear to think ofher as trivial or insincere. The thought was so intolerablethat he felt a blind desire to punish some one else for thepain it caused him.
　　As he sat moodily staring at the carpet its sillyintricacies melted into a blur from which the eyes of Mrs.
　　Leath again looked out at him. He saw the fine sweep of herbrows, and the deep look beneath them as she had turned fromhim on their last evening in London. "This will be good-bye, then," she had said; and it occurred to him that herparting phrase had been the same as Sophy Viner's.
　　At the thought he jumped to his feet and took down from itshook the coat in which he had left Miss Viner's letter. Theclock marked the third quarter after midnight, and he knewit would make no difference if he went down to the post-boxnow or early the next morning; but he wanted to clear hisconscience, and having found the letter he went to the door.
　　A sound in the next room made him pause. He had becomeconscious again that, a few feet off, on the other side of athin partition, a small keen flame of life was quivering andagitating the air. Sophy's face came hack to himinsistently. It was as vivid now as Mrs. Leath's had been amoment earlier. He recalled with a faint smile ofretrospective pleasure the girl's enjoyment of her evening,and the innumerable fine feelers of sensation she had thrownout to its impressions.
　　It gave him a curiously close sense of her presence to thinkthat at that moment she was living over her enjoyment asintensely as he was living over his unhappiness. His owncase was irremediable, but it was easy enough to give her afew more hours of pleasure. And did she not perhapssecretly expect it of him? After all, if she had been veryanxious to join her friends she would have telegraphed themon reaching Paris, instead of writing. He wondered now thathe had not been struck at the moment by so artless a deviceto gain more time. The fact of her having practised it didnot make him think less well of her; it merely strengthenedthe impulse to use his opportunity. She was starving, poorchild, for a little amusement, a little personal life--whynot give her the chance of another day in Paris? If he didso, should he not be merely falling in with her own hopes?
　　At the thought his sympathy for her revived. She became ofabsorbing interest to him as an escape from himself and anobject about which his thwarted activities could cluster.
　　He felt less drearily alone because of her being there, onthe other side of the door, and in his gratitude to her forgiving him this relief he began, with indolent amusement, toplan new ways of detaining her. He dropped back into hischair, lit a cigar, and smiled a little at the image of hersmiling face. He tried to imagine what incident of the dayshe was likely to be recalling at that particular moment,and what part he probably played in it. That it was not asmall part he was certain, and the knowledge was undeniablypleasant.
　　Now and then a sound from her room brought before him morevividly the reality of the situation and the strangeness ofthe vast swarming solitude in which he and she weremomentarily isolated, amid long lines of rooms each holdingits separate secret. The nearness of all these othermysteries enclosing theirs gave Darrow a more intimate senseof the girl's presence, and through the fumes of his cigarhis imagination continued to follow her to and fro, tracedthe curve of her slim young arms as she raised them to undoher hair, pictured the sliding down of her dress to thewaist and then to the knees, and the whiteness of her feetas she slipped across the floor to bed...
　　He stood up and shook himself with a yawn, throwing away theend of his cigar. His glance, in following it, lit on thetelegram which had dropped to the floor. The sounds in thenext room had ceased, and once more he felt alone andunhappy.
　　Opening the window, he folded his arms on the sill andlooked out on the vast light-spangled mass of the city, andthen up at the dark sky, in which the morning planet stood.
Chapter 6
    At the Theatre Francais, the next afternoon, Darrow yawnedand fidgeted in his seat.
　　The day was warm, the theatre crowded and airless, and theperformance, it seemed to him, intolerably bad. He stole aglance at his companion, wondering if she shared hisfeelings. Her rapt profile betrayed no unrest, butpoliteness might have caused her to feign an interest thatshe did not feel. He leaned back impatiently, stiflinganother yawn, and trying to fix his attention on the stage.
　　Great things were going forward there, and he was notinsensible to the stern beauties of the ancient drama. Butthe interpretation of the play seemed to him as airless andlifeless as the atmosphere of the theatre. The players werethe same whom he had often applauded in those very parts,and perhaps that fact added to the impression of stalenessand conventionality produced by their performance. Surelyit was time to infuse new blood into the veins of themoribund art. He had the impression that the ghosts ofactors were giving a spectral performance on the shores ofStyx.
　　Certainly it was not the most profitable way for a young manwith a pretty companion to pass the golden hours of a springafternoon. The freshness of the face at his side,reflecting the freshness of the season, suggested dapplingsof sunlight through new leaves, the sound of a brook in thegrass, the ripple of tree-shadows over breezy meadows...
　　When at length the fateful march of the cothurns was stayedby the single pause in the play, and Darrow had led MissViner out on the balcony overhanging the square before thetheatre, he turned to see if she shared his feelings. Butthe rapturous look she gave him checked the depreciation onhis lips.
　　"Oh, why did you bring me out here? One ought to creep awayand sit in the dark till it begins again!""Is THAT the way they made you feel?""Didn't they YOU?...As if the gods were there all thewhile, just behind them, pulling the strings?" Her handswere pressed against the railing, her face shining anddarkening under the wing-beats of successive impressions.
　　Darrow smiled in enjoyment of her pleasure. After all, hehad felt all that, long ago; perhaps it was his own fault,rather than that of the actors, that the poetry of the playseemed to have evaporated...But no, he had been right injudging the performance to be dull and stale: it was simplyhis companion's inexperience, her lack of occasions tocompare and estimate, that made her think it brilliant.
　　"I was afraid you were bored and wanted to come away.""BORED?" She made a little aggrieved grimace. "You meanyou thought me too ignorant and stupid to appreciate it?""No; not that." The hand nearest him still lay on therailing of the balcony, and he covered it for a moment withhis. As he did so he saw the colour rise and tremble in hercheek.
　　"Tell me just what you think," he said, bending his head alittle, and only half-aware of his words.
　　She did not turn her face to his, but began to talk rapidly,trying to convey something of what she felt. But she wasevidently unused to analyzing her aesthetic emotions, andthe tumultuous rush of the drama seemed to have left her ina state of panting wonder, as though it had been a storm orsome other natural cataclysm. She had no literary orhistoric associations to which to attach her impressions:
　　her education had evidently not comprised a course in Greekliterature. But she felt what would probably have beenunperceived by many a young lady who had taken a first inclassics: the ineluctable fatality of the tale, the dreadsway in it of the same mysterious "luck" which pulled thethreads of her own small destiny. It was not literature toher, it was fact: as actual, as near by, as what washappening to her at the moment and what the next hour heldin store. Seen in this light, the play regained for Darrowits supreme and poignant reality. He pierced to the heartof its significance through all the artificial accretionswith which his theories of art and the conventions of thestage had clothed it, and saw it as he had never seen it: aslife.
　　After this there could be no question of flight, and he tookher back to the theatre, content to receive his ownsensations through the medium of hers. But with thecontinuation of the play, and the oppression of the heavyair, his attention again began to wander, straying back overthe incidents of the morning.
　　He had been with Sophy Viner all day, and he was surprisedto find how quickly the time had gone. She had hardlyattempted, as the hours passed, to conceal her satisfactionon finding that no telegram came from the Farlows. "They'llhave written," she had simply said; and her mind had at onceflown on to the golden prospect of an afternoon at thetheatre. The intervening hours had been disposed of in astroll through the lively streets, and a repast, luxuriouslylingered over, under the chestnut-boughs of a restaurant inthe Champs Elysees. Everything entertained and interestedher, and Darrow remarked, with an amused detachment, thatshe was not insensible to the impression her charmsproduced. Yet there was no hard edge of vanity in her senseof her prettiness: she seemed simply to be aware of it as anote in the general harmony, and to enjoy sounding the noteas a singer enjoys singing.
　　After luncheon, as they sat over their coffee, she had againasked an immense number of questions and delivered herselfof a remarkable variety of opinions. Her questions testifiedto a wholesome and comprehensive human curiosity, and hercomments showed, like her face and her whole attitude, anodd mingling of precocious wisdom and disarming ignorance.
　　When she talked to him about "life"--the word was often onher lips--she seemed to him like a child playing with atiger's cub; and he said to himself that some day the childwould grow up--and so would the tiger. Meanwhile, suchexpertness qualified by such candour made it impossible toguess the extent of her personal experience, or to estimateits effect on her character. She might be any one of adozen definable types, or she might--more disconcertingly toher companion and more perilously to herself--be a shiftingand uncrystallized mixture of them all.
　　Her talk, as usual, had promptly reverted to the stage. Shewas eager to learn about every form of dramatic expressionwhich the metropolis of things theatrical had to offer, andher curiosity ranged from the official temples of the art toits less hallowed haunts. Her searching enquiries about aplay whose production, on one of the latter scenes, hadprovoked a considerable amount of scandal, led Darrow tothrow out laughingly: "To see THAT you'll have to waittill you're married!" and his answer had sent her off at atangent.
　　"Oh, I never mean to marry," she had rejoined in a tone ofyouthful finality.
　　"I seem to have heard that before!""Yes; from girls who've only got to choose!" Her eyes hadgrown suddenly almost old. "I'd like you to see the onlymen who've ever wanted to marry me! One was the doctor onthe steamer, when I came abroad with the Hokes: he'd beencashiered from the navy for drunkenness. The other was adeaf widower with three grown-up daughters, who kept aclock-shop in Bayswater!--Besides," she rambled on, "I'm notso sure that I believe in marriage. You see I'm all forself-development and the chance to live one's life. I'mawfully modern, you know."It was just when she proclaimed herself most awfully modernthat she struck him as most helplessly backward; yet themoment after, without any bravado, or apparent desire toassume an attitude, she would propound some social axiomwhich could have been gathered only in the bitter soil ofexperience.
　　All these things came back to him as he sat beside her inthe theatre and watched her ingenuous absorption. It was on"the story" that her mind was fixed, and in life also, hesuspected, it would always be "the story", rather than itsremoter imaginative issues, that would hold her. He did notbelieve there were ever any echoes in her soul...
　　There was no question, however, that what she felt was feltwith intensity: to the actual, the immediate, she spreadvibrating strings. When the play was over, and they cameout once more into the sunlight, Darrow looked down at herwith a smile.
　　"Well?" he asked.
　　She made no answer. Her dark gaze seemed to rest on himwithout seeing him. Her cheeks and lips were pale, and theloose hair under her hat-brim clung to her forehead in damprings. She looked like a young priestess still dazed by thefumes of the cavern.
　　"You poor child--it's been almost too much for you!"She shook her head with a vague smile.
　　"Come," he went on, putting his hand on her arm, "let's jumpinto a taxi and get some air and sunshine. Look, there arehours of daylight left; and see what a night it's going tobe!"He pointed over their heads, to where a white moon hung inthe misty blue above the roofs of the rue de Rivoli.
　　She made no answer, and he signed to a motor-cab, callingout to the driver: "To the Bois!"As the carriage turned toward the Tuileries she rousedherself. "I must go first to the hotel. There may be amessage--at any rate I must decide on something."Darrow saw that the reality of the situation had suddenlyforced itself upon her. "I MUST decide on something,"she repeated.
　　He would have liked to postpone the return, to persuade herto drive directly to the Bois for dinner. It would havebeen easy enough to remind her that she could not start forJoigny that evening, and that therefore it was of no momentwhether she received the Farlows' answer then or a few hourslater; but for some reason he hesitated to use thisargument, which had come so naturally to him the day before.
　　After all, he knew she would find nothing at the hotel--sowhat did it matter if they went there?
　　The porter, interrogated, was not sure. He himself hadreceived nothing for the lady, but in his absence hissubordinate might have sent a letter upstairs.
　　Darrow and Sophy mounted together in the lift, and the youngman, while she went into her room, unlocked his own door andglanced at the empty table. For him at least no message hadcome; and on her threshold, a moment later, she met him withthe expected: "No--there's nothing!"He feigned an unregretful surprise. "So much the better!
　　And now, shall we drive out somewhere? Or would you rathertake a boat to Bellevue? Have you ever dined there, on theterrace, by moonlight? It's not at all bad. And there's noearthly use in sitting here waiting."She stood before him in perplexity.
　　"But when I wrote yesterday I asked them to telegraph. Isuppose they're horribly hard up, the poor dears, and theythought a letter would do as well as a telegram." The colourhad risen to her face. "That's why I wrote instead oftelegraphing; I haven't a penny to spare myself!"Nothing she could have said could have filled her listenerwith a deeper contrition. He felt the red in his own faceas he recalled the motive with which he had credited her inhis midnight musings. But that motive, after all, hadsimply been trumped up to justify his own disloyalty: he hadnever really believed in it. The reflection deepened hisconfusion, and he would have liked to take her hand in hisand confess the injustice he had done her.
　　She may have interpreted his change of colour as aninvoluntary protest at being initiated into such shabbydetails, for she went on with a laugh: "I suppose you canhardly understand what it means to have to stop and thinkwhether one can afford a telegram? But I've always had toconsider such things. And I mustn't stay here any longernow--I must try to get a night train for Joigny. Even ifthe Farlows can't take me in, I can go to the hotel: it willcost less than staying here." She paused again and thenexclaimed: "I ought to have thought of that sooner; I oughtto have telegraphed yesterday! But I was sure I should hearfrom them today; and I wanted--oh, I DID so awfully wantto stay!" She threw a troubled look at Darrow. "Do youhappen to remember," she asked, "what time it was when youposted my letter?"
Chapter 7
    Darrow was still standing on her threshold. As she put thequestion he entered the room and closed the door behind him.
　　His heart was beating a little faster than usual and he hadno clear idea of what he was about to do or say, beyond thedefinite conviction that, whatever passing impulse ofexpiation moved him, he would not be fool enough to tell herthat he had not sent her letter. He knew that mostwrongdoing works, on the whole, less mischief than itsuseless confession; and this was clearly a case where apassing folly might be turned, by avowal, into a seriousoffense.
　　"I'm so sorry--so sorry; but you must let me help you...Youwill let me help you?" he said.
　　He took her hands and pressed them together between his,counting on a friendly touch to help out the insufficiencyof words. He felt her yield slightly to his clasp, andhurried on without giving her time to answer.
　　"Isn't it a pity to spoil our good time together byregretting anything you might have done to prevent ourhaving it?"She drew back, freeing her hands. Her face, losing its lookof appealing confidence, was suddenly sharpened by distrust.
　　"You didn't forget to post my letter?"Darrow stood before her, constrained and ashamed, and evermore keenly aware that the betrayal of his distress must bea greater offense than its concealment.
　　"What an insinuation!" he cried, throwing out his hands witha laugh.
　　Her face instantly melted to laughter. "Well, then--IWON'T be sorry; I won't regret anything except that ourgood time is over!"The words were so unexpected that they routed all hisresolves. If she had gone on doubting him he could probablyhave gone on deceiving her; but her unhesitating acceptanceof his word made him hate the part he was playing. At thesame moment a doubt shot up its serpenthead in his ownbosom. Was it not he rather than she who was childishlytrustful? Was she not almost too ready to take his word, anddismiss once for all the tiresome question of the letter?
　　Considering what her experiences must have been, suchtrustfulness seemed open to suspicion. But the moment hiseyes fell on her he was ashamed of the thought, and knew itfor what it really was: another pretext to lessen his owndelinquency.
　　"Why should our good time be over?" he asked. "Whyshouldn't it last a little longer?"She looked up, her lips parted in surprise; but before shecould speak he went on: "I want you to stay with me--I wantyou, just for a few days, to have all the things you'venever had. It's not always May and Paris--why not make themost of them now? You know me--we're not strangers--whyshouldn't you treat me like a friend?"While he spoke she had drawn away a little, but her handstill lay in his. She was pale, and her eyes were fixed onhim in a gaze in which there was neither distrust orresentment, but only an ingenuous wonder. He wasextraordinarily touched by her expression.
　　"Oh, do! You must. Listen: to prove that I'm sincere I'lltell you...I'll tell you I didn't post your letter...Ididn't post it because I wanted so much to give you a fewgood hours...and because I couldn't bear to have you go."He had the feeling that the words were being uttered inspite of him by some malicious witness of the scene, and yetthat he was not sorry to have them spoken.
　　The girl had listened to him in silence. She remainedmotionless for a moment after he had ceased to speak; thenshe snatched away her hand.
　　"You didn't post my letter? You kept it back on purpose? Andyou tell me so NOW, to prove to me that I'd better putmyself under your protection?" She burst into a laugh thathad in it all the piercing echoes of her Murrett past, andher face, at the same moment, underwent the same change,shrinking into a small malevolent white mask in which theeyes burned black. "Thank you--thank you most awfully fortelling me! And for all your other kind intentions! Theplan's delightful--really quite delightful, and I'mextremely flattered and obliged."She dropped into a seat beside her dressing-table, restingher chin on her lifted hands, and laughing out at him underthe elf-lock which had shaken itself down over her eyes.
　　Her outburst did not offend the young man; its immediateeffect was that of allaying his agitation. The theatricaltouch in her manner made his offense seem more venial thanhe had thought it a moment before.
　　He drew up a chair and sat down beside her. "After all," hesaid, in a tone of good-humoured protest, "I needn't havetold you I'd kept back your letter; and my telling you seemsrather strong proof that I hadn't any very nefarious designson you."She met this with a shrug, but he did not give her time toanswer. "My designs," he continued with a smile, "were notnefarious. I saw you'd been through a bad time with Mrs.
　　Murrett, and that there didn't seem to be much fun ahead foryou; and I didn't see--and I don't yet see--the harm oftrying to give you a few hours of amusement between adepressing past and a not particularly cheerful future." Hepaused again, and then went on, in the same tone of friendlyreasonableness: "The mistake I made was not to tell you thisat once--not to ask you straight out to give me a day ortwo, and let me try to make you forget all the things thatare troubling you. I was a fool not to see that if I'd putit to you in that way you'd have accepted or refused, as youchose; but that at least you wouldn't have mistaken myintentions.--Intentions!" He stood up, walked the length ofthe room, and turned back to where she still sat motionless,her elbows propped on the dressing-table, her chin on herhands. "What rubbish we talk about intentions! The truth isI hadn't any: I just liked being with you. Perhaps youdon't know how extraordinarily one can like being withyou...I was depressed and adrift myself; and you made meforget my bothers; and when I found you were going--andgoing back to dreariness, as I was--I didn't see why weshouldn't have a few hours together first; so I left yourletter in my pocket."He saw her face melt as she listened, and suddenly sheunclasped her hands and leaned to him.
　　"But are YOU unhappy too? Oh, I never understood--Inever dreamed it! I thought you'd always had everything inthe world you wanted!"Darrow broke into a laugh at this ingenuous picture of hisstate. He was ashamed of trying to better his case by anappeal to her pity, and annoyed with himself for alluding toa subject he would rather have kept out of his thoughts.
　　But her look of sympathy had disarmed him; his heart wasbitter and distracted; she was near him, her eyes wereshining with compassion--he bent over her and kissed herhand.
　　"Forgive me--do forgive me," he said.
　　She stood up with a smiling head-shake. "Oh, it's not sooften that people try to give me any pleasure--much less twowhole days of it! I sha'n't forget how kind you've been. Ishall have plenty of time to remember. But this IS good-bye, you know. I must telegraph at once to say I'm coming.""To say you're coming? Then I'm not forgiven?""Oh, you're forgiven--if that's any comfort.""It's not, the very least, if your way of proving it is togo away!"She hung her head in meditation. "But I can't stay.--HowCAN I stay?" she broke out, as if arguing with someunseen monitor.
　　"Why can't you? No one knows you're here...No one need everknow."She looked up, and their eyes exchanged meanings for a rapidminute. Her gaze was as clear as a boy's. "Oh, it's notTHAT," she exclaimed, almost impatiently; "it's not peopleI'm afraid of! They've never put themselves out for me--whyon earth should I care about them?"He liked her directness as he had never liked it before.
　　"Well, then, what is it? Not ME, I hope?""No, not you: I like you. It's the money! With me that'salways the root of the matter. I could never yet afford atreat in my life!"Is THAT all?" He laughed, relieved by her naturalness.
　　"Look here; since we re talking as man to man--can't youtrust me about that too?""Trust you? How do you mean? You'd better not trustME!" she laughed back sharply. "I might never be able topay up!"His gesture brushed aside the allusion. "Money may be theroot of the matter; it can't be the whole of it, betweenfriends. Don't you think one friend may accept a smallservice from another without looking too far ahead orweighing too many chances? The question turns entirely onwhat you think of me. If you like me well enough to bewilling to take a few days' holiday with me, just for thepleasure of the thing, and the pleasure you'll be giving me,let's shake hands on it. If you don't like me well enoughwe'll shake hands too; only I shall be sorry," he ended.
　　"Oh, but I shall be sorry too!" Her face, as she lifted itto his, looked so small and young that Darrow felt afugitive twinge of compunction, instantly effaced by theexcitement of pursuit.
　　"Well, then?" He stood looking down on her, his eyespersuading her. He was now intensely aware that hisnearness was having an effect which made it less and lessnecessary for him to choose his words, and he went on, moremindful of the inflections of his voice than of what he wasactually saying: "Why on earth should we say good-bye ifwe're both sorry to? Won't you tell me your reason? It's nota bit like you to let anything stand in the way of yoursaying just what you feel. You mustn't mind offending me,you know!"She hung before him like a leaf on the meeting of cross-currents, that the next ripple may sweep forward or whirlback. Then she flung up her head with the odd boyishmovement habitual to her in moments of excitement. "What Ifeel? Do you want to know what I feel? That you're giving methe only chance I've ever had!"She turned about on her heel and, dropping into the nearestchair, sank forward, her face hidden against the dressing-table.
　　Under the folds of her thin summer dress the modelling ofher back and of her lifted arms, and the slight hollowbetween her shoulder-blades, recalled the faint curves of aterra-cotta statuette, some young image of grace hardly morethan sketched in the clay. Darrow, as he stood looking ather, reflected that her character, for all its seemingfirmness, its flashing edges of "opinion", was probably noless immature. He had not expected her to yield so suddenlyto his suggestion, or to confess her yielding in that way.
　　At first he was slightly disconcerted; then he saw how herattitude simplified his own. Her behaviour had all theindecision and awkwardness of inexperience. It showed thatshe was a child after all; and all he could do--all he hadever meant to do--was to give her a child's holiday to lookback to.
　　For a moment he fancied she was crying; but the next she wason her feet and had swept round on him a face she must haveturned away only to hide the first rush of her pleasure.
　　For a while they shone on each other without speaking; thenshe sprang to him and held out both hands.
　　"Is it true? Is it really true? Is it really going to happento ME?"He felt like answering: "You're the very creature to whom itwas bound to happen"; but the words had a double sense thatmade him wince, and instead he caught her proffered handsand stood looking at her across the length of her arms,without attempting to bend them or to draw her closer. Hewanted her to know how her words had moved him; but histhoughts were blurred by the rush of the same emotion thatpossessed her, and his own words came with an effort.
　　He ended by giving her back a laugh as frank as her own, anddeclaring, as he dropped her hands: "All that and more too--you'll see!"
Chapter 8
    All day, since the late reluctant dawn, the rain had comedown in torrents. It streamed against Darrow's high-perchedwindows, reduced their vast prospect of roofs and chimneysto a black oily huddle, and filled the room with the drabtwilight of an underground aquarium.
　　The streams descended with the regularity of a third day'srain, when trimming and shuffling are over, and the weatherhas settled down to do its worst. There were no variationsof rhythm, no lyrical ups and downs: the grey linesstreaking the panes were as dense and uniform as a page ofunparagraphed narrative.
　　George Darrow had drawn his armchair to the fire. The time-table he had been studying lay on the floor, and he satstaring with dull acquiescence into the boundless blur ofrain, which affected him like a vast projection of his ownstate of mind. Then his eyes travelled slowly about theroom.
　　It was exactly ten days since his hurried unpacking hadstrewn it with the contents of his portmanteaux. Hisbrushes and razors were spread out on the blotched marble ofthe chest of drawers. A stack of newspapers had accumulatedon the centre table under the "electrolier", and half adozen paper novels lay on the mantelpiece among cigar-casesand toilet bottles; but these traces of his passage had madeno mark on the featureless dulness of the room, its look ofbeing the makeshift setting of innumerable transientcollocations. There was something sardonic, almostsinister, in its appearance of having deliberately "made up"for its anonymous part, all in noncommittal drabs andbrowns, with a carpet and paper that nobody would remember,and chairs and tables as impersonal as railway porters.
　　Darrow picked up the time-table and tossed it on to thetable. Then he rose to his feet, lit a cigar and went tothe window. Through the rain he could just discover theface of a clock in a tall building beyond the railway roofs.
　　He pulled out his watch, compared the two time-pieces, andstarted the hands of his with such a rush that they flewpast the hour and he had to make them repeat the circuitmore deliberately. He felt a quite disproportionateirritation at the trifling blunder. When he had correctedit he went back to his chair and threw himself down, leaningback his head against his hands. Presently his cigar wentout, and he got up, hunted for the matches, lit it again andreturned to his seat.
　　The room was getting on his nerves. During the first fewdays, while the skies were clear, he had not noticed it, orhad felt for it only the contemptuous indifference of thetraveller toward a provisional shelter. But now that he wasleaving it, was looking at it for the last time, it seemedto have taken complete possession of his mind, to be soakingitself into him like an ugly indelible blot. Every detailpressed itself on his notice with the familiarity of anaccidental confidant: whichever way he turned, he felt thenudge of a transient intimacy...
　　The one fixed point in his immediate future was that hisleave was over and that he must be back at his post inLondon the next morning. Within twenty-four hours he wouldagain be in a daylight world of recognized activities,himself a busy, responsible, relatively necessary factor inthe big whirring social and official machine. That fixedobligation was the fact he could think of with the leastdiscomfort, yet for some unaccountable reason it was the oneon which he found it most difficult to fix his thoughts.
　　Whenever he did so, the room jerked him back into the circleof its insistent associations. It was extraordinary withwhat a microscopic minuteness of loathing he hated it all:
　　the grimy carpet and wallpaper, the black marble mantel-piece, the clock with a gilt allegory under a dusty bell,the high-bolstered brown-counterpaned bed, the framed cardof printed rules under the electric light switch, and thedoor of communication with the next room. He hated the doormost of all...
　　At the outset, he had felt no special sense ofresponsibility. He was satisfied that he had struck theright note, and convinced of his power of sustaining it.
　　The whole incident had somehow seemed, in spite of itsvulgar setting and its inevitable prosaic propinquities, tobe enacting itself in some unmapped region outside the paleof the usual. It was not like anything that had everhappened to him before, or in which he had ever picturedhimself as likely to be involved; but that, at first, hadseemed no argument against his fitness to deal with it.
　　Perhaps but for the three days' rain he might have got awaywithout a doubt as to his adequacy. The rain had made allthe difference. It had thrown the whole picture out ofperspective, blotted out the mystery of the remoter planesand the enchantment of the middle distance, and thrust intoprominence every commonplace fact of the foreground. It wasthe kind of situation that was not helped by being thoughtover; and by the perversity of circumstance he had beenforced into the unwilling contemplation of its everyaspect...
　　His cigar had gone out again, and he threw it into the fireand vaguely meditated getting up to find another. But themere act of leaving his chair seemed to call for a greaterexertion of the will than he was capable of, and he leanedhis head back with closed eyes and listened to the drummingof the rain.
　　A different noise aroused him. It was the opening andclosing of the door leading from the corridor into theadjoining room. He sat motionless, without opening hiseyes; but now another sight forced itself under his loweredlids. It was the precise photographic picture of that otherroom. Everything in it rose before him and pressed itselfupon his vision with the same acuity of distinctness as theobjects surrounding him. A step sounded on the floor, andhe knew which way the step was directed, what pieces offurniture it had to skirt, where it would probably pause,and what was likely to arrest it. He heard another sound,and recognized it as that of a wet umbrella placed in theblack marble jamb of the chimney-piece, against the hearth.
　　He caught the creak of a hinge, and instantly differentiatedit as that of the wardrobe against the opposite wall. Thenhe heard the mouse-like squeal of a reluctant drawer, andknew it was the upper one in the chest of drawers beside thebed: the clatter which followed was caused by the mahoganytoilet-glass jumping on its loosened pivots...
　　The step crossed the floor again. It was strange how muchbetter he knew it than the person to whom it belonged! Nowit was drawing near the door of communication between thetwo rooms. He opened his eyes and looked. The step hadceased and for a moment there was silence. Then he heard alow knock. He made no response, and after an interval hesaw that the door handle was being tentatively turned. Heclosed his eyes once more...
　　The door opened, and the step was in the room, comingcautiously toward him. He kept his eyes shut, relaxing hisbody to feign sleep. There was another pause, then awavering soft advance, the rustle of a dress behind hischair, the warmth of two hands pressed for a moment on hislids. The palms of the hands had the lingering scent of somestuff that he had bought on the Boulevard...He looked up andsaw a letter falling over his shoulder to his knee...
　　"Did I disturb you? I'm so sorry! They gave me this just nowwhen I came in."The letter, before he could catch it, had slipped betweenhis knees to the floor. It lay there, address upward, athis feet, and while he sat staring down at the strongslender characters on the blue-gray envelope an arm reachedout from behind to pick it up.
　　"Oh, don't--DON'T" broke from him, and he bent over andcaught the arm. The face above it was close to his.
　　"Don't what?"----"take the trouble," he stammered.
　　He dropped the arm and stooped down. His grasp closed overthe letter, he fingered its thickness and weight andcalculated the number of sheets it must contain.
　　Suddenly he felt the pressure of the hand on his shoulder,and became aware that the face was still leaning over him,and that in a moment he would have to look up and kiss it...
　　He bent forward first and threw the unopened letter into themiddle of the fire.
Chapter 9
    The light of the October afternoon lay on an old high-roofedhouse which enclosed in its long expanse of brick andyellowish stone the breadth of a grassy court filled withthe shadow and sound of limes.
　　From the escutcheoned piers at the entrance of the court alevel drive, also shaded by limes, extended to a white-barred gate beyond which an equally level avenue of grass,cut through a wood, dwindled to a blue-green blur against asky banked with still white slopes of cloud.
　　In the court, half-way between house and drive, a ladystood. She held a parasol above her head, and looked now atthe house-front, with its double flight of steps meetingbefore a glazed door under sculptured trophies, now down thedrive toward the grassy cutting through the wood. Her airwas less of expectancy than of contemplation: she seemed notso much to be watching for any one, or listening for anapproaching sound, as letting the whole aspect of the placesink into her while she held herself open to its influence.
　　Yet it was no less apparent that the scene was not new toher. There was no eagerness of investigation in her survey:
　　she seemed rather to be looking about her with eyes towhich, for some intimate inward reason, details long sincefamiliar had suddenly acquired an unwonted freshness.
　　This was in fact the exact sensation of which Mrs. Leath wasconscious as she came forth from the house and descendedinto the sunlit court. She had come to meet her step-son,who was likely to be returning at that hour from anafternoon's shooting in one of the more distant plantations,and she carried in her hand the letter which had sent her insearch of him; but with her first step out of the house allthought of him had been effaced by another series ofimpressions.
　　The scene about her was known to satiety. She had seenGivre at all seasons of the year, and for the greater partof every year, since the far-off day of her marriage; theday when, ostensibly driving through its gates at herhusband's side, she had actually been carried there on acloud of iris-winged visions.
　　The possibilities which the place had then represented werestill vividly present to her. The mere phrase "a Frenchchateau" had called up to her youthful fancy a throng ofromantic associations, poetic, pictorial and emotional; andthe serene face of the old house seated in its park amongthe poplar-bordered meadows of middle France, had seemed, onher first sight of it, to hold out to her a fate as nobleand dignified as its own mien.
　　Though she could still call up that phase of feeling it hadlong since passed, and the house had for a time become toher the very symbol of narrowness and monotony. Then, withthe passing of years, it had gradually acquired a lessinimical character, had become, not again a castle ofdreams, evoker of fair images and romantic legend, but theshell of a life slowly adjusted to its dwelling: the placeone came back to, the place where one had one's duties,one's habits and one's books, the place one would naturallylive in till one died: a dull house, an inconvenient house,of which one knew all the defects, the shabbinesses, thediscomforts, but to which one was so used that one couldhardly, after so long a time, think one's self away from itwithout suffering a certain loss of identity.
　　Now, as it lay before her in the autumn mildness, itsmistress was surprised at her own insensibility. She hadbeen trying to see the house through the eyes of an oldfriend who, the next morning, would be driving up to it forthe first time; and in so doing she seemed to be opening herown eyes upon it after a long interval of blindness.
　　The court was very still, yet full of a latent life: thewheeling and rustling of pigeons about the rectangular yewsand across the sunny gravel; the sweep of rooks above thelustrous greyish-purple slates of the roof, and the stir ofthe tree-tops as they met the breeze which every day, atthat hour, came punctually up from the river.
　　Just such a latent animation glowed in Anna Leath. In everynerve and vein she was conscious of that equipoise of blisswhich the fearful human heart scarce dares acknowledge. Shewas not used to strong or full emotions; but she had alwaysknown that she should not be afraid of them. She was notafraid now; but she felt a deep inward stillness.
　　The immediate effect of the feeling had been to send herforth in quest of her step-son. She wanted to stroll backwith him and have a quiet talk before they re-entered thehouse. It was always easy to talk to him, and at thismoment he was the one person to whom she could have spokenwithout fear of disturbing her inner stillness. She wasglad, for all sorts of reasons, that Madame de Chantelle andEffie were still at Ouchy with the governess, and that sheand Owen had the house to themselves. And she was glad thateven he was not yet in sight. She wanted to be alone alittle longer; not to think, but to let the long slow wavesof joy break over her one by one.
　　She walked out of the court and sat down on one of thebenches that bordered the drive. From her seat she had adiagonal view of the long house-front and of the domedchapel terminating one of the wings. Beyond a gate in thecourt-yard wall the flower-garden drew its dark-greensquares and raised its statues against the yellowingbackground of the park. In the borders only a few latepinks and crimsons smouldered, but a peacock strutting inthe sun seemed to have gathered into his out-spread fan allthe summer glories of the place.
　　In Mrs. Leath's hand was the letter which had opened hereyes to these things, and a smile rose to her lips at themere feeling of the paper between her fingers. The thrill itsent through her gave a keener edge to every sense. Shefelt, saw, breathed the shining world as though a thinimpenetrable veil had suddenly been removed from it.
　　Just such a veil, she now perceived, had always hung betweenherself and life. It had been like the stage gauze whichgives an illusive air of reality to the painted scene behindit, yet proves it, after all, to be no more than a paintedscene.
　　She had been hardly aware, in her girlhood, of differingfrom others in this respect. In the well-regulated well-fedSummers world the unusual was regarded as either immoral orill-bred, and people with emotions were not visited.
　　Sometimes, with a sense of groping in a topsy-turvyuniverse, Anna had wondered why everybody about her seemedto ignore all the passions and sensations which formed thestuff of great poetry and memorable action. In a communitycomposed entirely of people like her parents and herparents' friends she did not see how the magnificent thingsone read about could ever have happened. She was sure thatif anything of the kind had occurred in her immediate circleher mother would have consulted the family clergyman, andher father perhaps even have rung up the police; and hersense of humour compelled her to own that, in the givenconditions, these precautions might not have beenunjustified.
　　Little by little the conditions conquered her, and shelearned to regard the substance of life as a mere canvas forthe embroideries of poet and painter, and its little sweptand fenced and tended surface as its actual substance. Itwas in the visioned region of action and emotion that herfullest hours were spent; but it hardly occurred to her thatthey might be translated into experience, or connected withanything likely to happen to a young lady living in WestFifty- fifth Street.
　　She perceived, indeed, that other girls, leading outwardlythe same life as herself, and seemingly unaware of her worldof hidden beauty, were yet possessed of some vital secretwhich escaped her. There seemed to be a kind of freemasonrybetween them; they were wider awake than she, more alert,and surer of their wants if not of their opinions. Shesupposed they were "cleverer", and accepted her inferioritygood-humouredly, half aware, within herself, of a reserve ofunused power which the others gave no sign of possessing.
　　This partly consoled her for missing so much of what madetheir "good time"; but the resulting sense of exclusion, ofbeing somehow laughingly but firmly debarred from a share oftheir privileges, threw her back on herself and deepened thereserve which made envious mothers cite her as a model ofladylike repression.
　　Love, she told herself, would one day release her from thisspell of unreality. She was persuaded that the sublimepassion was the key to the enigma; but it was difficult torelate her conception of love to the forms it wore in herexperience. Two or three of the girls she had envied fortheir superior acquaintance with the arts of life hadcontracted, in the course of time, what were variouslydescribed as "romantic" or "foolish" marriages; one evenmade a runaway match, and languished for a while under acloud of social reprobation. Here, then, was passion inaction, romance converted to reality; yet the heroines ofthese exploits returned from them untransfigured, and theirhusbands were as dull as ever when one had to sit next tothem at dinner.
　　Her own case, of course, would be different. Some day shewould find the magic bridge between West Fifty-fifth Streetand life; once or twice she had even fancied that the cluewas in her hand. The first time was when she had met youngDarrow. She recalled even now the stir of the encounter.
　　But his passion swept over her like a wind that shakes theroof of the forest without reaching its still glades orrippling its hidden pools. He was extraordinarilyintelligent and agreeable, and her heart beat faster when hewas with her. He had a tall fair easy presence and a mindin which the lights of irony played pleasantly through theshades of feeling. She liked to hear his voice almost asmuch as to listen to what he was saying, and to listen towhat he was saying almost as much as to feel that he waslooking at her; but he wanted to kiss her, and she wanted totalk to him about books and pictures, and have him insinuatethe eternal theme of their love into every subject theydiscussed.
　　Whenever they were apart a reaction set in. She wonderedhow she could have been so cold, called herself a prude andan idiot, questioned if any man could really care for her,and got up in the dead of night to try new ways of doing herhair. But as soon as he reappeared her head straighteneditself on her slim neck and she sped her little shafts ofirony, or flew her little kites of erudition, while hot andcold waves swept over her, and the things she really wantedto say choked in her throat and burned the palms of herhands.
　　Often she told herself that any silly girl who had waltzedthrough a season would know better than she how to attract aman and hold him; but when she said "a man" she did notreally mean George Darrow.
　　Then one day, at a dinner, she saw him sitting next to oneof the silly girls in question: the heroine of the elopementwhich had shaken West Fifty-fifth Street to its base. Theyoung lady had come back from her adventure no less sillythan when she went; and across the table the partner of herflight, a fat young man with eye-glasses, sat stolidlyeating terrapin and talking about polo and investments.
　　The young woman was undoubtedly as silly as ever; yet afterwatching her for a few minutes Miss Summers perceived thatshe had somehow grown luminous, perilous, obscurely menacingto nice girls and the young men they intended eventually toaccept. Suddenly, at the sight, a rage of possessorshipawoke in her. She must save Darrow, assert her right to himat any price. Pride and reticence went down in a hurricaneof jealousy. She heard him laugh, and there was somethingnew in his laugh...She watched him talking, talking...He satslightly sideways, a faint smile beneath his lids, loweringhis voice as he lowered it when he talked to her. Shecaught the same inflections, but his eyes were different.
　　It would have offended her once if he had looked at her likethat. Now her one thought was that none but she had a rightto be so looked at. And that girl of all others! Whatillusions could he have about a girl who, hardly a year ago,had made a fool of herself over the fat young man stolidlyeating terrapin across the table? If that was where romanceand passion ended, it was better to take to districtvisiting or algebra!
　　All night she lay awake and wondered: "What was she sayingto him? How shall I learn to say such things?" and shedecided that her heart would tell her--that the next timethey were alone together the irresistible word would springto her lips. He came the next day, and they were alone, andall she found was: "I didn't know that you and Kitty Maynewere such friends."He answered with indifference that he didn't know it either,and in the reaction of relief she declared: "She's certainlyever so much prettier than she was...""She's rather good fun," he admitted, as though he had notnoticed her other advantages; and suddenly Anna saw in hiseyes the look she had seen there the previous evening.
　　She felt as if he were leagues and leagues away from her.
　　All her hopes dissolved, and she was conscious of sittingrigidly, with high head and straight lips, while theirresistible word fled with a last wing-beat into the goldenmist of her illusions...
　　She was still quivering with the pain and bewilderment ofthis adventure when Fraser Leath appeared. She met himfirst in Italy, where she was travelling with her parents;and the following winter he came to New York. In Italy hehad seemed interesting: in New York he became remarkable.
　　He seldom spoke of his life in Europe, and let drop but themost incidental allusions to the friends, the tastes, thepursuits which filled his cosmopolitan days; but in theatmosphere of West Fifty-fifth Street he seemed theembodiment of a storied past. He presented Miss Summerswith a prettily-bound anthology of the old French poets and,when she showed a discriminating pleasure in the gift,observed with his grave smile: "I didn't suppose I shouldfind any one here who would feel about these things as Ido." On another occasion he asked her acceptance of a half-effaced eighteenth century pastel which he had surprisinglypicked up in a New York auction-room. "I know no one but youwho would really appreciate it," he explained.
　　He permitted himself no other comments, but these conveyedwith sufficient directness that he thought her worthy of adifferent setting. That she should be so regarded by a manliving in an atmosphere of art and beauty, and esteemingthem the vital elements of life, made her feel for the firsttime that she was understood. Here was some one whose scaleof values was the same as hers, and who thought her opinionworth hearing on the very matters which they both consideredof supreme importance. The discovery restored her self-confidence, and she revealed herself to Mr. Leath as she hadnever known how to reveal herself to Darrow.
　　As the courtship progressed, and they grew moreconfidential, her suitor surprised and delighted her bylittle explosions of revolutionary sentiment. He said:
　　"Shall you mind, I wonder, if I tell you that you live in adread-fully conventional atmosphere?" and, seeing that shemanifestly did not mind: "Of course I shall say things nowand then that will horrify your dear delightful parents--Ishall shock them awfully, I warn you."In confirmation of this warning he permitted himself anoccasional playful fling at the regular church-going of Mr.
　　and Mrs. Summers, at the innocuous character of theliterature in their library, and at their guilelessappreciations in art. He even ventured to banter Mrs.
　　Summers on her refusal to receive the irrepressible KittyMayne who, after a rapid passage with George Darrow, was nowinvolved in another and more flagrant adventure.
　　"In Europe, you know, the husband is regarded as the onlyjudge in such matters. As long as he accepts the situation--" Mr. Leath explained to Anna, who took his view the moreemphatically in order to convince herself that, personally,she had none but the most tolerant sentiments toward thelady.
　　The subversiveness of Mr. Leath's opinions was enhanced bythe distinction of his appearance and the reserve of hismanners. He was like the anarchist with a gardenia in hisbuttonhole who figures in the higher melodrama. Every word,every allusion, every note of his agreeably-modulated voice,gave Anna a glimpse of a society at once freer and finer,which observed the traditional forms but had discarded theunderlying prejudices; whereas the world she knew haddiscarded many of the forms and kept almost all theprejudices.
　　In such an atmosphere as his an eager young woman, curiousas to all the manifestations of life, yet instinctivelydesiring that they should come to her in terms of beauty andfine feeling, must surely find the largest scope for self-expression. Study, travel, the contact of the world, thecomradeship of a polished and enlightened mind, wouldcombine to enrich her days and form her character; and itwas only in the rare moments when Mr. Leath's symmetricalblond mask bent over hers, and his kiss dropped on her likea cold smooth pebble, that she questioned the completenessof the joys he offered.
　　There had been a time when the walls on which her gaze nowrested had shed a glare of irony on these early dreams. Inthe first years of her marriage the sober symmetry of Givrehad suggested only her husband's neatly-balanced mind. Itwas a mind, she soon learned, contentedly absorbed informulating the conventions of the unconventional. WestFifty-fifth Street was no more conscientiously concernedthan Givre with the momentous question of "what people did";it was only the type of deed investigated that wasdifferent. Mr. Leath collected his social instances withthe same seriousness and patience as his snuff-boxes. Heexacted a rigid conformity to his rules of non-conformityand his scepticism had the absolute accent of a dogma. Heeven cherished certain exceptions to his rules as the book-collector prizes a "defective" first edition. TheProtestant church-going of Anna's parents had provoked hisgentle sarcasm; but he prided himself on his mother'sdevoutness, because Madame de Chantelle, in embracing hersecond husband's creed, had become part of a society whichstill observes the outward rites of piety.
　　Anna, in fact, had discovered in her amiable and elegantmother-in-law an unexpected embodiment of the West Fifty-fifth Street ideal. Mrs. Summers and Madame de Chantelle,however strongly they would have disagreed as to theauthorized source of Christian dogma, would have foundthemselves completely in accord on all the momentousminutiae of drawing-room conduct; yet Mr. Leath treated hismother's foibles with a respect which Anna's experience ofhim forbade her to attribute wholly to filial affection.
　　In the early days, when she was still questioning the Sphinxinstead of trying to find an answer to it, she ventured totax her husband with his inconsistency.
　　"You say your mother won't like it if I call on that amusinglittle woman who came here the other day, and was let in bymistake; but Madame de Chantelle tells me she lives with herhusband, and when mother refused to visit Kitty Mayne yousaid----"Mr. Leath's smile arrested her. "My dear child, I don'tpretend to apply the principles of logic to my poor mother'sprejudices.""But if you admit that they ARE prejudices----?""There are prejudices and prejudices. My mother, of course,got hers from Monsieur de Chantelle, and they seem to me asmuch in their place in this house as the pot-pourri in yourhawthorn jar. They preserve a social tradition of which Ishould be sorry to lose the least perfume. Of course Idon't expect you, just at first, to feel the difference, tosee the nuance. In the case of little Madame deVireville, for instance: you point out that she's stillunder her husband's roof. Very true; and if she were merelya Paris acquaintance--especially if you had met her, as onestill might, in the RIGHT KIND of house in Paris--Ishould be the last to object to your visiting her. But inthe country it's different. Even the best provincialsociety is what you would call narrow: I don't deny it; andif some of our friends met Madame de Vireville at Givre--well, it would produce a bad impression. You're inclined toridicule such considerations, but gradually you'll come tosee their importance; and meanwhile, do trust me when I askyou to be guided by my mother. It is always well for astranger in an old society to err a little on the side ofwhat you call its prejudices but I should rather describe asits traditions."After that she no longer tried to laugh or argue her husbandout of his convictions. They WERE convictions, andtherefore unassailable. Nor was any insincerity implied inthe fact that they sometimes seemed to coincide with hers.
　　There were occasions when he really did look at things asshe did; but for reasons so different as to make thedistance between them all the greater. Life, to Mr. Leath,was like a walk through a carefully classified museum,where, in moments of doubt, one had only to look at thenumber and refer to one's catalogue; to his wife it was likegroping about in a huge dark lumber-room where the exploringray of curiosity lit up now some shape of breathing beautyand now a mummy's grin.
　　In the first bewilderment of her new state these discoverieshad had the effect of dropping another layer of gauzebetween herself and reality. She seemed farther than everremoved from the strong joys and pangs for which she feltherself made. She did not adopt her husband's views, butinsensibly she began to live his life. She tried to throw acompensating ardour into the secret excursions of herspirit, and thus the old vicious distinction between romanceand reality was re-established for her, and she resignedherself again to the belief that "real life" was neitherreal nor alive.
　　The birth of her little girl swept away this delusion. Atlast she felt herself in contact with the actual business ofliving: but even this impression was not enduring.
　　Everything but the irreducible crude fact of child-bearingassumed, in the Leath household, the same ghostly tinge ofunreality. Her husband, at the time, was all that his ownideal of a husband required. He was attentive, and evensuitably moved: but as he sat by her bedside, andthoughtfully proffered to her the list of people who had"called to enquire", she looked first at him, and then atthe child between them, and wondered at the blunderingalchemy of Nature...
　　With the exception of the little girl herself, everythingconnected with that time had grown curiously remote andunimportant. The days that had moved so slowly as theypassed seemed now to have plunged down head-long steeps oftime; and as she sat in the autumn sun, with Darrow's letterin her hand, the history of Anna Leath appeared to itsheroine like some grey shadowy tale that she might have readin an old book, one night as she was falling asleep...
Chapter 10
    Two brown blurs emerging from the farther end of the wood-vista gradually defined themselves as her step-son and anattendant game-keeper. They grew slowly upon the bluishbackground, with occasional delays and re-effacements, andshe sat still, waiting till they should reach the gate atthe end of the drive, where the keeper would turn off to hiscottage and Owen continue on to the house.
　　She watched his approach with a smile. From the first daysof her marriage she had been drawn to the boy, but it wasnot until after Effie's birth that she had really begun toknow him. The eager observation of her own child had shownher how much she had still to learn about the slight fairboy whom the holidays periodically restored to Givre. Owen,even then, both physically and morally, furnished her withthe oddest of commentaries on his father's mien and mind.
　　He would never, the family sighingly recognized, be nearlyas handsome as Mr. Leath; but his rather charminglyunbalanced face, with its brooding forehead and petulantboyish smile, suggested to Anna what his father'scountenance might have been could one have pictured its neatfeatures disordered by a rattling breeze. She even pushedthe analogy farther, and descried in her step-son's mind aquaintly-twisted reflection of her husband's. With hisbursts of door-slamming activity, his fits of bookishindolence, his crude revolutionary dogmatizing and hisflashes of precocious irony, the boy was not unlike aboisterous embodiment of his father's theories. It was asthough Fraser Leath's ideas, accustomed to hang likemarionettes on their pegs, should suddenly come down andwalk. There were moments, indeed, when Owen's humours musthave suggested to his progenitor the gambols of an infantFrankenstein; but to Anna they were the voice of her secretrebellions, and her tenderness to her step-son was partlybased on her severity toward herself. As he had the courageshe had lacked, so she meant him to have the chances she hadmissed; and every effort she made for him helped to keep herown hopes alive.
　　Her interest in Owen led her to think more often of hismother, and sometimes she would slip away and stand alonebefore her predecessor's portrait. Since her arrival atGivre the picture--a "full-length" by a once fashionableartist--had undergone the successive displacements of anexiled consort removed farther and farther from the throne;and Anna could not help noting that these stages coincidedwith the gradual decline of the artist's fame. She had afancy that if his credit had been in the ascendant the firstMrs. Leath might have continued to throne over the drawing-room mantel- piece, even to the exclusion of her successor'seffigy. Instead of this, her peregrinations had finallylanded her in the shrouded solitude of the billiard-room, anapartment which no one ever entered, but where it wasunderstood that "the light was better," or might have beenif the shutters had not been always closed.
　　Here the poor lady, elegantly dressed, and seated in themiddle of a large lonely canvas, in the blank contemplationof a gilt console, had always seemed to Anna to be waitingfor visitors who never came.
　　"Of course they never came, you poor thing! I wonder howlong it took you to find out that they never would?" Annahad more than once apostrophized her, with a derisionaddressed rather to herself than to the dead; but it wasonly after Effie's birth that it occurred to her to studymore closely the face in the picture, and speculate on thekind of visitors that Owen's mother might have hoped for.
　　"She certainly doesn't look as if they would have been thesame kind as mine: but there's no telling, from a portraitthat was so obviously done 'to please the family', and thatleaves Owen so unaccounted for. Well, they never came, thevisitors; they never came; and she died of it. She died ofit long before they buried her: I'm certain of that. Thoseare stone-dead eyes in the picture...The loneliness musthave been awful, if even Owen couldn't keep her from dyingof it. And to feel it so she must have HAD feelings--real live ones, the kind that twitch and tug. And all shehad to look at all her life was a gilt console--yes, that'sit, a gilt console screwed to the wall! That's exactly andabsolutely what he is!"She did not mean, if she could help it, that either Effie orOwen should know that loneliness, or let her know it again.
　　They were three, now, to keep each other warm, and sheembraced both children in the same passion of motherhood, asthough one were not enough to shield her from herpredecessor's fate.
　　Sometimes she fancied that Owen Leath's response was warmerthan that of her own child. But then Effie was still hardlymore than a baby, and Owen, from the first, had been almost"old enough to understand": certainly DID understandnow, in a tacit way that yet perpetually spoke to her. Thissense of his understanding was the deepest element in theirfeeling for each other. There were so many things betweenthem that were never spoken of, or even indirectly alludedto, yet that, even in their occasional discussions anddifferences, formed the unadduced arguments making for finalagreement...
　　Musing on this, she continued to watch his approach; and herheart began to beat a little faster at the thought of whatshe had to say to him. But when he reached the gate she sawhim pause, and after a moment he turned aside as if to gaina cross-road through the park.
　　She started up and waved her sunshade, but he did not seeher. No doubt he meant to go back with the gamekeeper,perhaps to the kennels, to see a retriever who had hurt hisleg. Suddenly she was seized by the whim to overtake him.
　　She threw down the parasol, thrust her letter into herbodice, and catching up her skirts began to run.
　　She was slight and light, with a natural ease and quicknessof gait, but she could not recall having run a yard sinceshe had romped with Owen in his school-days; nor did sheknow what impulse moved her now. She only knew that run shemust, that no other motion, short of flight, would have beenbuoyant enough for her humour. She seemed to be keepingpace with some inward rhythm, seeking to give bodilyexpression to the lyric rush of her thoughts. The earthalways felt elastic under her, and she had a conscious joyin treading it; but never had it been as soft and springy astoday. It seemed actually to rise and meet her as she went,so that she had the feeling, which sometimes came to her indreams, of skimming miraculously over short bright waves.
　　The air, too, seemed to break in waves against her, sweepingby on its current all the slanted lights and moist sharpperfumes of the failing day. She panted to herself: "Thisis nonsense!" her blood hummed back: "But it's glorious!"and she sped on till she saw that Owen had caught sight ofher and was striding back in her direction.
　　Then she stopped and waited, flushed and laughing, her handsclasped against the letter in her breast.
　　"No, I'm not mad," she called out; "but there's something inthe air today--don't you feel it?--And I wanted to have alittle talk with you," she added as he came up to her,smiling at him and linking her arm in his.
　　He smiled back, but above the smile she saw the shade ofanxiety which, for the last two months, had kept its fixedline between his handsome eyes.
　　"Owen, don't look like that! I don't want you to!" she saidimperiously.
　　He laughed. "You said that exactly like Effie. What do youwant me to do? To race with you as I do Effie? But Ishouldn't have a show!" he protested, still with the littlefrown between his eyes.
　　"Where are you going?" she asked.
　　"To the kennels. But there's not the least need. The vethas seen Garry and he's all right. If there's anything youwanted to tell me----""Did I say there was? I just came out to meet you--I wantedto know if you'd had good sport."The shadow dropped on him again. "None at all. The fact isI didn't try. Jean and I have just been knocking about inthe woods. I wasn't in a sanguinary mood."They walked on with the same light gait, so nearly of aheight that keeping step came as naturally to them asbreathing. Anna stole another look at the young face on alevel with her own.
　　"You DID say there was something you wanted to tell me,"her step-son began after a pause.
　　"Well, there is." She slackened her pace involuntarily, andthey came to a pause and stood facing each other under thelimes.
　　"Is Darrow coming?" he asked.
　　She seldom blushed, but at the question a sudden heatsuffused her. She held her head high.
　　"Yes: he's coming. I've just heard. He arrives to-morrow.
　　But that's not----" She saw her blunder and tried to rectifyit. "Or rather, yes, in a way it is my reason for wantingto speak to you----""Because he's coming?""Because he's not yet here.""It's about him, then?"He looked at her kindly, half-humourously, an almostfraternal wisdom in his smile.
　　"About----? No, no: I meant that I wanted to speak todaybecause it's our last day alone together.""Oh, I see." He had slipped his hands into the pockets ofhis tweed shooting jacket and lounged along at her side, hiseyes bent on the moist ruts of the drive, as though thematter had lost all interest for him.
　　"Owen----"He stopped again and faced her. "Look here, my dear, it'sno sort of use.""What's no use?""Anything on earth you can any of you say."She challenged him: "Am I one of 'any of you'?"He did not yield. "Well, then--anything on earth that evenYOU can say.""You don't in the least know what I can say--or what I meanto.""Don't I, generally?"She gave him this point, but only to make another. "Yes; butthis is particularly. I want to say...Owen, you've beenadmirable all through."He broke into a laugh in which the odd elder-brotherly notewas once more perceptible.
　　"Admirable," she emphasized. "And so has SHE.""Oh, and so have you to HER!" His voice broke down toboyishness. "I've never lost sight of that for a minute.
　　It's been altogether easier for her, though," he threw offpresently.
　　"On the whole, I suppose it has. Well----" she summed upwith a laugh, "aren't you all the better pleased to be toldyou've behaved as well as she?""Oh, you know, I've not done it for you," he tossed back ather, without the least note of hostility in the affectedlightness of his tone.
　　"Haven't you, though, perhaps--the least bit? Because, afterall, you knew I understood?""You've been awfully kind about pretending to."She laughed. "You don't believe me? You must remember I hadyour grandmother to consider.""Yes: and my father--and Effie, I suppose--and the outragedshades of Givre!" He paused, as if to lay more stress on theboyish sneer: "Do you likewise include the late Monsieur deChantelle?"His step-mother did not appear to resent the thrust. Shewent on, in the same tone of affectionate persuasion: "Yes:
　　I must have seemed to you too subject to Givre. Perhaps Ihave been. But you know that was not my real object inasking you to wait, to say nothing to your grandmotherbefore her return."He considered. "Your real object, of course, was to gaintime.""Yes--but for whom? Why not for YOU?""For me?" He flushed up quickly. "You don't mean----?"She laid her hand on his arm and looked gravely into hishandsome eyes.
　　"I mean that when your grandmother gets back from Ouchy Ishall speak to her----""You'll speak to her...?""Yes; if only you'll promise to give me time----""Time for her to send for Adelaide Painter?""Oh, she'll undoubtedly send for Adelaide Painter!"The allusion touched a spring of mirth in both their minds,and they exchanged a laughing look.
　　"Only you must promise not to rush things. You must give metime to prepare Adelaide too," Mrs. Leath went on.
　　"Prepare her too?" He drew away for a better look at her.
　　"Prepare her for what?""Why, to prepare your grandmother! For your marriage. Yes,that's what I mean. I'm going to see you through, you know----"His feint of indifference broke down and he caught her hand.
　　"Oh, you dear divine thing! I didn't dream----""I know you didn't." She dropped her gaze and began to walkon slowly. "I can't say you've convinced me of the wisdomof the step. Only I seem to see that other things mattermore--and that not missing things matters most. PerhapsI've changed--or YOUR not changing has convinced me.
　　I'm certain now that you won't budge. And that was reallyall I ever cared about.""Oh, as to not budging--I told you so months ago: you mighthave been sure of that! And how can you be any surer todaythan yesterday?""I don't know. I suppose one learns something every day----""Not at Givre!" he laughed, and shot a half-ironic look ather. "But you haven't really BEEN at Givre lately--notfor months! Don't you suppose I've noticed that, my dear?"She echoed his laugh to merge it in an undenying sigh. "PoorGivre...""Poor empty Givre! With so many rooms full and yet not asoul in it--except of course my grandmother, who is itssoul!"They had reached the gateway of the court and stood lookingwith a common accord at the long soft-hued facade on whichthe autumn light was dying. "It looks so made to be happyin----" she murmured.
　　"Yes--today, today!" He pressed her arm a little. "Oh, youdarling--to have given it that look for me!" He paused, andthen went on in a lower voice: "Don't you feel we owe it tothe poor old place to do what we can to give it that look?
　　You, too, I mean? Come, let's make it grin from wing towing! I've such a mad desire to say outrageous things to it--haven't you? After all, in old times there must have beenliving people here!"Loosening her arm from his she continued to gaze up at thehouse-front, which seemed, in the plaintive decline oflight, to send her back the mute appeal of something doomed.
　　"It IS beautiful," she said.
　　"A beautiful memory! Quite perfect to take out and turn overwhen I'm grinding at the law in New York, and you're----" Hebroke off and looked at her with a questioning smile.
　　"Come! Tell me. You and I don't have to say things to talkto each other. When you turn suddenly absentminded andmysterious I always feel like saying: 'Come back. All isdiscovered'."She returned his smile. "You know as much as I know. Ipromise you that."He wavered, as if for the first time uncertain how far hemight go. "I don't know Darrow as much as you know him," hepresently risked.
　　She frowned a little. "You said just now we didn't need tosay things""Was I speaking? I thought it was your eyes----" Hecaught her by both elbows and spun her halfway round, sothat the late sun shed a betraying gleam on her face.
　　"They're such awfully conversational eyes! Don't you supposethey told me long ago why it's just today you've made upyour mind that people have got to live their own lives--evenat Givre?"
Chapter 11
    "This is the south terrace," Anna said. "Should you like towalk down to the river?"She seemed to listen to herself speaking from a far-off airyheight, and yet to be wholly gathered into the circle ofconsciousness which drew its glowing ring about herself andDarrow. To the aerial listener her words sounded flat andcolourless, but to the self within the ring each one beatwith a separate heart.
　　It was the day after Darrow's arrival, and he had come downearly, drawn by the sweetness of the light on the lawns andgardens below his window. Anna had heard the echo of hisstep on the stairs, his pause in the stone- flagged hall,his voice as he asked a servant where to find her. She wasat the end of the house, in the brown-panelled sitting-roomwhich she frequented at that season because it caught thesunlight first and kept it longest. She stood near thewindow, in the pale band of brightness, arranging somesalmon-pink geraniums in a shallow porcelain bowl. Everysensation of touch and sight was thrice-alive in her. Thegrey- green fur of the geranium leaves caressed her fingersand the sunlight wavering across the irregular surface ofthe old parquet floor made it seem as bright and shifting asthe brown bed of a stream.
　　Darrow stood framed in the door-way of the farthest drawing-room, a light-grey figure against the black and whiteflagging of the hall; then he began to move toward her downthe empty pale-panelled vista, crossing one after anotherthe long reflections which a projecting cabinet or screencast here and there upon the shining floors.
　　As he drew nearer, his figure was suddenly displaced by thatof her husband, whom, from the same point, she had so oftenseen advancing down the same perspective. Straight, spare,erect, looking to right and left with quick precise turns ofthe head, and stopping now and then to straighten a chair oralter the position of a vase, Fraser Leath used to marchtoward her through the double file of furniture like ageneral reviewing a regiment drawn up for his inspection.
　　At a certain point, midway across the second room, he alwaysstopped before the mantel-piece of pinkish-yellow marble andlooked at himself in the tall garlanded glass thatsurmounted it. She could not remember that he had everfound anything to straighten or alter in his own studiedattire, but she had never known him to omit the inspectionwhen he passed that particular mirror.
　　When it was over he continued more briskly on his way, andthe resulting expression of satisfaction was still on hisface when he entered the oak sitting-room to greet hiswife...
　　The spectral projection of this little daily scene hung butfor a moment before Anna, but in that moment she had time tofling a wondering glance across the distance between herpast and present. Then the footsteps of the present cameclose, and she had to drop the geraniums to give her hand toDarrow...
　　"Yes, let us walk down to the river."They had neither of them, as yet, found much to say to eachother. Darrow had arrived late on the previous afternoon,and during the evening they had had between them Owen Leathand their own thoughts. Now they were alone for the firsttime and the fact was enough in itself. Yet Anna wasintensely aware that as soon as they began to talk moreintimately they would feel that they knew each other lesswell.
　　They passed out onto the terrace and down the steps to thegravel walk below. The delicate frosting of dew gave thegrass a bluish shimmer, and the sunlight, sliding in emeraldstreaks along the tree-boles, gathered itself into greatluminous blurs at the end of the wood-walks, and hung abovethe fields a watery glory like the ring about an autumnmoon.
　　"It's good to be here," Darrow said.
　　They took a turn to the left and stopped for a moment tolook back at the long pink house-front, plainer, friendlier,less adorned than on the side toward the court. Soprolonged yet delicate had been the friction of time uponits bricks that certain expanses had the bloom and textureof old red velvet, and the patches of gold lichen spreadingover them looked like the last traces of a dim embroidery.
　　The dome of the chapel, with its gilded cross, rose aboveone wing, and the other ended in a conical pigeon-house,above which the birds were flying, lustrous and slatey,their breasts merged in the blue of the roof when theydropped down on it.
　　"And this is where you've been all these years."They turned away and began to walk down a long tunnel ofyellowing trees. Benches with mossy feet stood against themossy edges of the path, and at its farther end it widenedinto a circle about a basin rimmed with stone, in which theopaque water strewn with leaves looked like a slab of gold-flecked agate. The path, growing narrower, wound oncircuitously through the woods, between slender serriedtrunks twined with ivy. Patches of blue appeared above themthrough the dwindling leaves, and presently the trees drewback and showed the open fields along the river.
　　They walked on across the fields to the tow-path. In acurve of the wall some steps led up to a crumbling pavilionwith openings choked with ivy. Anna and Darrow seatedthemselves on the bench projecting from the inner wall ofthe pavilion and looked across the river at the slopesdivided into blocks of green and fawn-colour, and at thechalk-tinted village lifting its squat church-tower and greyroofs against the precisely drawn lines of the landscape.
　　Anna sat silent, so intensely aware of Darrow's nearnessthat there was no surprise in the touch he laid on her hand.
　　They looked at each other, and he smiled and said: "Thereare to be no more obstacles now.""Obstacles?" The word startled her. "What obstacles?""Don't you remember the wording of the telegram that turnedme back last May? 'Unforeseen obstacle': that was it. Whatwas the earth-shaking problem, by the way? Finding agoverness for Effie, wasn't it?""But I gave you my reason: the reason why it was anobstacle. I wrote you fully about it.""Yes, I know you did." He lifted her hand and kissed it.
　　"How far off it all seems, and how little it all matterstoday!"She looked at him quickly. "Do you feel that? I suppose I'mdifferent. I want to draw all those wasted months intotoday--to make them a part of it.""But they are, to me. You reach back and take everything--back to the first days of all."She frowned a little, as if struggling with an inarticulateperplexity. "It's curious how, in those first days, too,something that I didn't understand came between us.""Oh, in those days we neither of us understood, did we? It'spart of what's called the bliss of being young.""Yes, I thought that, too: thought it, I mean, in lookingback. But it couldn't, even then, have been as true of youas of me; and now----""Now," he said, "the only thing that matters is that we'resitting here together."He dismissed the rest with a lightness that might haveseemed conclusive evidence of her power over him. But shetook no pride in such triumphs. It seemed to her that shewanted his allegiance and his adoration not so much forherself as for their mutual love, and that in treatinglightly any past phase of their relation he took somethingfrom its present beauty. The colour rose to her face.
　　"Between you and me everything matters.""Of course!" She felt the unperceiving sweetness of hissmile. "That's why," he went on, "'everything,' for me, ishere and now: on this bench, between you and me."She caught at the phrase. "That's what I meant: it's hereand now; we can't get away from it.""Get away from it? Do you want to? AGAIN?"Her heart was beating unsteadily. Something in her,fitfully and with reluctance, struggled to free itself, butthe warmth of his nearness penetrated every sense as thesunlight steeped the landscape. Then, suddenly, she feltthat she wanted no less than the whole of her happiness.
　　"'Again'? But wasn't it YOU, the last time----?"She paused, the tremor in her of Psyche holding up the lamp.
　　But in the interrogative light of her pause her companion'sfeatures underwent no change.
　　"The last time? Last spring? But it was you who--for thebest of reasons, as you've told me--turned me back from yourvery door last spring!"She saw that he was good-humouredly ready to "thresh out,"for her sentimental satisfaction, a question which, for hisown, Time had so conclusively dealt with; and the sense ofhis readiness reassured her.
　　"I wrote as soon as I could," she rejoined. "I explainedthe delay and asked you to come. And you never evenanswered my letter.""It was impossible to come then. I had to go back to mypost.""And impossible to write and tell me so?""Your letter was a long time coming. I had waited a week--ten days. I had some excuse for thinking, when it came,that you were in no great hurry for an answer.""You thought that--really--after reading it?""I thought it."Her heart leaped up to her throat. "Then why are you heretoday?"He turned on her with a quick look of wonder. "God knows--if you can ask me that!""You see I was right to say I didn't understand."He stood up abruptly and stood facing her, blocking the viewover the river and the checkered slopes. "Perhaps I mightsay so too.""No, no: we must neither of us have any reason for saying itagain." She looked at him gravely. "Surely you and Ineedn't arrange the lights before we show ourselves to eachother. I want you to see me just as I am, with all myirrational doubts and scruples; the old ones and the newones too."He came back to his seat beside her. "Never mind the oldones. They were justified--I'm willing to admit it. Withthe governess having suddenly to be packed off, and Effie onyour hands, and your mother-in-law ill, I see theimpossibility of your letting me come. I even see that, atthe moment, it was difficult to write and explain. But whatdoes all that matter now? The new scruples are the ones Iwant to tackle."Again her heart trembled. She felt her happiness so near,so sure, that to strain it closer might be like a child'scrushing a pet bird in its caress. But her very securityurged her on. For so long her doubts had been knife-edged:
　　now they had turned into bright harmless toys that she couldtoss and catch without peril!
　　"You didn't come, and you didn't answer my letter; and afterwaiting four months I wrote another.""And I answered that one; and I'm here.""Yes." She held his eyes. "But in my last letter I repeatedexactly what I'd said in the first--the one I wrote you lastJune. I told you then that I was ready to give you theanswer to what you'd asked me in London; and in telling youthat, I told you what the answer was.""My dearest! My dearest!" Darrow murmured.
　　"You ignored that letter. All summer you made no sign. Andall I ask now is, that you should frankly tell me why.""I can only repeat what I've just said. I was hurt andunhappy and I doubted you. I suppose if I'd cared less Ishould have been more confident. I cared so much that Icouldn't risk another failure. For you'd made me feel thatI'd miserably failed. So I shut my eyes and set my teethand turned my back. There's the whole pusillanimous truthof it!""Oh, if it's the WHOLE truth!----" She let him claspher. "There's my torment, you see. I thought that was whatyour silence meant till I made you break it. Now I want tobe sure that I was right.""What can I tell you to make you sure?""You can let me tell YOU everything first." She drewaway, but without taking her hands from him. "Owen saw youin Paris," she began.
　　She looked at him and he faced her steadily. The light wasfull on his pleasantly-browned face, his grey eyes, hisfrank white forehead. She noticed for the first time aseal-ring in a setting of twisted silver on the hand he hadkept on hers.
　　"In Paris? Oh, yes...So he did.""He came back and told me. I think you talked to him amoment in a theatre. I asked if you'd spoken of my havingput you off--or if you'd sent me any message. He didn'tremember that you had.""In a crush--in a Paris foyer? My dear!""It was absurd of me! But Owen and I have always been on oddkind of brother-and-sister terms. I think he guessed aboutus when he saw you with me in London. So he teased me alittle and tried to make me curious about you; and when hesaw he'd succeeded he told me he hadn't had time to say muchto you because you were in such a hurry to get back to thelady you were with."He still held her hands, but she felt no tremor in his, andthe blood did not stir in his brown cheek. He seemed to behonestly turning over his memories.
　　"Yes: and what else did he tell you?""Oh, not much, except that she was awfully pretty. When Iasked him to describe her he said you had her tucked away ina baignoire and he hadn't actually seen her; but he saw thetail of her cloak, and somehow knew from that that she waspretty. One DOES, you know...I think he said the cloakwas pink."Darrow broke into a laugh. "Of course it was--they alwaysare! So that was at the bottom of your doubts?""Not at first. I only laughed. But afterward, when I wroteyou and you didn't answer----Oh, you DO see?" sheappealed to him.
　　He was looking at her gently. "Yes: I see.""It's not as if this were a light thing between us. I wantyou to know me as I am. If I thought that at thatmoment...when you were on your way here, almost----"He dropped her hand and stood up. "Yes, yes--I understand.""But do you?" Her look followed him. "I'm not a goose of agirl. I know...of course I KNOW...but there are thingsa woman feels...when what she knows doesn't make anydifference. It's not that I want you to explain--I meanabout that particular evening. It's only that I want you tohave the whole of my feeling. I didn't know what it wastill I saw you again. I never dreamed I should say suchthings to you!""I never dreamed I should be here to hear you say them!" Heturned back and lifting a floating end of her scarf put hislips to it. "But now that you have, I know--I know," hesmiled down at her.
　　"You know?""That this is no light thing between us. Now you may ask meanything you please! That was all I wanted to ask YOU."For a long moment they looked at each other withoutspeaking. She saw the dancing spirit in his eyes turn graveand darken to a passionate sternness. He stooped and kissedher, and she sat as if folded in wings.
Chapter 12
    It was in the natural order of things that, on the way backto the house, their talk should have turned to the future.
　　Anna was not eager to define it. She had an extraordinarysensitiveness to the impalpable elements of happiness, andas she walked at Darrow's side her imagination flew back andforth, spinning luminous webs of feeling between herself andthe scene about her. Every heightening of emotion producedfor her a new effusion of beauty in visible things, and withit the sense that such moments should be lingered over andabsorbed like some unrenewable miracle. She understoodDarrow's impatience to see their plans take shape. She knewit must be so, she would not have had it otherwise; but toreach a point where she could fix her mind on his appeal fordates and decisions was like trying to break her way throughthe silver tangle of an April wood.
　　Darrow wished to use his diplomatic opportunities as a meansof studying certain economic and social problems with whichhe presently hoped to deal in print; and with this in viewhe had asked for, and obtained, a South Americanappointment. Anna was ready to follow where he led, and notreluctant to put new sights as well as new thoughts betweenherself and her past. She had, in a direct way, only Effieand Effie's education to consider; and there seemed, afterdue reflection, no reason why the most anxious regard forthese should not be conciliated with the demands of Darrow'scareer. Effie, it was evident, could be left to Madame deChantelle's care till the couple should have organized theirlife; and she might even, as long as her future step-father's work retained him in distant posts, continue todivide her year between Givre and the antipodes.
　　As for Owen, who had reached his legal majority two yearsbefore, and was soon to attain the age fixed for the takingover of his paternal inheritance, the arrival of this datewould reduce his step-mother's responsibility to a friendlyconcern for his welfare. This made for the promptrealization of Darrow's wishes, and there seemed no reasonwhy the marriage should not take place within the six weeksthat remained of his leave.
　　They passed out of the wood-walk into the open brightness ofthe garden. The noon sunlight sheeted with gold the bronzeflanks of the polygonal yews. Chrysanthemums, russet,saffron and orange, glowed like the efflorescence of anenchanted forest; belts of red begonia purpling to wine-colour ran like smouldering flame among the borders; andabove this outspread tapestry the house extended itsharmonious length, the soberness of its lines softened tograce in the luminous misty air.
　　Darrow stood still, and Anna felt that his glance wastravelling from her to the scene about them and then back toher face.
　　"You're sure you're prepared to give up Givre? You look somade for each other!""Oh, Givre----" She broke off suddenly, feeling as if hertoo careless tone had delivered all her past into his hands;and with one of her instinctive movements of recoil sheadded: "When Owen marries I shall have to give it up.""When Owen marries? That's looking some distance ahead! Iwant to be told that meanwhile you'll have no regrets."She hesitated. Why did he press her to uncover to him herpoor starved past? A vague feeling of loyalty, a desire tospare what could no longer harm her, made her answerevasively: "There will probably be no 'meanwhile.' Owen maymarry before long."She had not meant to touch on the subject, for her step-sonhad sworn her to provisional secrecy; but since theshortness of Darrow's leave necessitated a prompt adjustmentof their own plans, it was, after all, inevitable that sheshould give him at least a hint of Owen's.
　　"Owen marry? Why, he always seems like a faun in flannels! Ihope he's found a dryad. There might easily be one left inthese blue-and-gold woods.""I can't tell you yet where he found his dryad, but sheIS one, I believe: at any rate she'll become the Givrewoods better than I do. Only there may be difficulties----""Well! At that age they're not always to be wished away."She hesitated. "Owen, at any rate, has made up his mind toovercome them; and I've promised to see him through."She went on, after a moment's consideration, to explain thather step-son's choice was, for various reasons, not likelyto commend itself to his grandmother. "She must be preparedfor it, and I've promised to do the preparing. You know Ialways HAVE seen him through things, and he rathercounts on me now."She fancied that Darrow's exclamation had in it a faint noteof annoyance, and wondered if he again suspected her ofseeking a pretext for postponement.
　　"But once Owen's future is settled, you won't, surely, forthe sake of what you call seeing him through, ask that Ishould go away again without you?" He drew her closer asthey walked. "Owen will understand, if you don't. Sincehe's in the same case himself I'll throw myself on hismercy. He'll see that I have the first claim on you; hewon't even want you not to see it.""Owen sees everything: I'm not afraid of that. But hisfuture isn't settled. He's very young to marry--too young,his grandmother is sure to think--and the marriage he wantsto make is not likely to convince her to the contrary.""You don't mean that it's like his first choice?""Oh, no! But it's not what Madame de Chantelle would call agood match; it's not even what I call a wise one.""Yet you're backing him up?""Yet I'm backing him up." She paused. "I wonder if you'llunderstand? What I've most wanted for him, and shall wantfor Effie, is that they shall always feel free to make theirown mistakes, and never, if possible, be persuaded to makeother people's. Even if Owen's marriage is a mistake, andhas to be paid for, I believe he'll learn and grow in thepaying. Of course I can't make Madame de Chantelle seethis; but I can remind her that, with his character--his bigrushes of impulse, his odd intervals of ebb and apathy--shemay drive him into some worse blunder if she thwarts himnow.""And you mean to break the news to her as soon as she comesback from Ouchy?""As soon as I see my way to it. She knows the girl andlikes her: that's our hope. And yet it may, in the end,prove our danger, make it harder for us all, when she learnsthe truth, than if Owen had chosen a stranger. I can't tellyou more till I've told her: I've promised Owen not to tellany one. All I ask you is to give me time, to give me a fewdays at any rate She's been wonderfully 'nice,' as she wouldcall it, about you, and about the fact of my having soon toleave Givre; but that, again, may make it harder for Owen.
　　At any rate, you can see, can't you, how it makes me want tostand by him? You see, I couldn't bear it if the leastfraction of my happiness seemed to be stolen from his--as ifit were a little scrap of happiness that had to be piecedout with other people's!" She clasped her hands on Darrow'sarm. "I want our life to be like a house with all thewindows lit: I'd like to string lanterns from the roof andchimneys!"She ended with an inward tremor. All through her expositionand her appeal she had told herself that the moment couldhardly have been less well chosen. In Darrow's place shewould have felt, as he doubtless did, that her carefullydeveloped argument was only the disguise of an habitualindecision. It was the hour of all others when she wouldhave liked to affirm herself by brushing aside everyobstacle to his wishes; yet it was only by opposing themthat she could show the strength of character she wanted himto feel in her.
　　But as she talked she began to see that Darrow's face gaveback no reflection of her words, that he continued to wearthe abstracted look of a man who is not listening to what issaid to him. It caused her a slight pang to discover thathis thoughts could wander at such a moment; then, with aflush of joy she perceived the reason.
　　In some undefinable way she had become aware, withoutturning her head, that he was steeped in the sense of hernearness, absorbed in contemplating the details of her faceand dress; and the discovery made the words throng to herlips. She felt herself speak with ease, authority,conviction. She said to herself: "He doesn't care what Isay--it's enough that I say it--even if it's stupid he'lllike me better for it..." She knew that every inflexion ofher voice, every gesture, every characteristic of herperson--its very defects, the fact that her forehead was toohigh, that her eyes were not large enough, that her hands,though slender, were not small, and that the fingers did nottaper--she knew that these deficiencies were so manychannels through which her influence streamed to him; thatshe pleased him in spite of them, perhaps because of them;that he wanted her as she was, and not as she would haveliked to be; and for the first time she felt in her veinsthe security and lightness of happy love.
　　They reached the court and walked under the limes toward thehouse. The hall door stood wide, and through the windowsopening on the terrace the sun slanted across the black andwhite floor, the faded tapestry chairs, and Darrow'stravelling coat and cap, which lay among the cloaks and rugspiled on a bench against the wall.
　　The sight of these garments, lying among her own wraps, gaveher a sense of homely intimacy. It was as if her happinesscame down from the skies and took on the plain dress ofdaily things. At last she seemed to hold it in her hand.
　　As they entered the hall her eye lit on an unstamped noteconspicuously placed on the table.
　　"From Owen! He must have rushed off somewhere in the motor."She felt a secret stir of pleasure at the immediateinference that she and Darrow would probably lunch alone.
　　Then she opened the note and stared at it in wonder.
　　"Dear," Owen wrote, "after what you said yesterday I can'twait another hour, and I'm off to Francheuil, to catch theDijon express and travel back with them. Don't befrightened; I won't speak unless it's safe to. Trust me forthat--but I had to go."She looked up slowly.
　　"He's gone to Dijon to meet his grandmother. Oh, I hope Ihaven't made a mistake!""You? Why, what have you to do with his going to Dijon?"She hesitated. "The day before yesterday I told him, forthe first time, that I meant to see him through, no matterwhat happened. And I'm afraid he's lost his head, and willbe imprudent and spoil things. You see, I hadn't meant tosay a word to him till I'd had time to prepare Madame deChantelle."She felt that Darrow was looking at her and reading herthoughts, and the colour flew to her face. "Yes: it waswhen I heard you were coming that I told him. I wanted himto feel as I felt...it seemed too unkind to make him wait!"Her hand was in his, and his arm rested for a moment on hershoulder.
　　"It WOULD have been too unkind to make him wait."They moved side by side toward the stairs. Through the hazeof bliss enveloping her, Owen's affairs seemed curiouslyunimportant and remote. Nothing really mattered but thistorrent of light in her veins. She put her foot on thelowest step, saying: "It's nearly luncheon time--I must takeoff my hat..." and as she started up the stairs Darrow stoodbelow in the hall and watched her. But the distance betweenthem did not make him seem less near: it was as if histhoughts moved with her and touched her like endearinghands.
　　In her bedroom she shut the door and stood still, lookingabout her in a fit of dreamy wonder. Her feelings wereunlike any she had ever known: richer, deeper, morecomplete. For the first time everything in her, from headto foot, seemed to be feeding the same full current ofsensation.
　　She took off her hat and went to the dressing-table tosmooth her hair. The pressure of the hat had flattened thedark strands on her forehead; her face was paler than usual,with shadows about the eyes. She felt a pang of regret forthe wasted years. "If I look like this today," she said toherself, "what will he think of me when I'm ill or worried?"She began to run her fingers through her hair, rejoicing inits thickness; then she desisted and sat still, resting herchin on her hands.
　　"I want him to see me as I am," she thought.
　　Deeper than the deepest fibre of her vanity was thetriumphant sense that AS SHE WAS, with her flattenedhair, her tired pallor, her thin sleeves a little tumbled bythe weight of her jacket, he would like her even better,feel her nearer, dearer, more desirable, than in all thesplendours she might put on for him. In the light of thisdiscovery she studied her face with a new intentness, seeingits defects as she had never seen them, yet seeing themthrough a kind of radiance, as though love were a luminousmedium into which she had been bodily plunged.
　　She was glad now that she had confessed her doubts and herjealousy. She divined that a man in love may be flatteredby such involuntary betrayals, that there are moments whenrespect for his liberty appeals to him less than theinability to respect it: moments so propitious that awoman's very mistakes and indiscretions may help toestablish her dominion. The sense of power she had beenaware of in talking to Darrow came back with ten-fold force.
　　She felt like testing him by the most fantastic exactions,and at the same moment she longed to humble herself beforehim, to make herself the shadow and echo of his mood. Shewanted to linger with him in a world of fancy and yet towalk at his side in the world of fact. She wanted him tofeel her power and yet to love her for her ignorance andhumility. She felt like a slave, and a goddess, and a girlin her teens...
Chapter 13
    Darrow, late that evening, threw himself into an armchairbefore his fire and mused.
　　The room was propitious to meditation. The red-veiled lamp,the corners of shadow, the splashes of firelight on thecurves of old full-bodied wardrobes and cabinets, gave it anair of intimacy increased by its faded hangings, itsslightly frayed and threadbare rugs. Everything in it washarmoniously shabby, with a subtle sought-for shabbiness inwhich Darrow fancied he discerned the touch of Fraser Leath.
　　But Fraser Leath had grown so unimportant a factor in thescheme of things that these marks of his presence caused theyoung man no emotion beyond that of a faint retrospectiveamusement.
　　The afternoon and evening had been perfect.
　　After a moment of concern over her step-son's departure,Anna had surrendered herself to her happiness with animpetuosity that Darrow had never suspected in her. Earlyin the afternoon they had gone out in the motor, traversingmiles of sober-tinted landscape in which, here and there, ascarlet vineyard flamed, clattering through the streets ofstony villages, coming out on low slopes above the river, orwinding through the pale gold of narrow wood-roads with theblue of clear-cut hills at their end. Over everything lay afaint sunshine that seemed dissolved in the still air, andthe smell of wet roots and decaying leaves was merged in thepungent scent of burning underbrush. Once, at the turn of awall, they stopped the motor before a ruined gateway and,stumbling along a road full of ruts, stood before a littleold deserted house, fantastically carved and chimneyed,which lay in a moat under the shade of ancient trees. Theypaced the paths between the trees, found a mouldy Temple ofLove on an islet among reeds and plantains, and, sitting ona bench in the stable-yard, watched the pigeons circlingagainst the sunset over their cot of patterned brick. Thenthe motor flew on into the dusk...
　　When they came in they sat beside the fire in the oakdrawing-room, and Darrow noticed how delicately her headstood out against the sombre panelling, and mused on theenjoyment there would always be in the mere fact of watchingher hands as they moved about among the tea-things...
　　They dined late, and facing her across the table, with itslow lights and flowers, he felt an extraordinary pleasure inseeing her again in evening dress, and in letting his eyesdwell on the proud shy set of her head, the way her darkhair clasped it, and the girlish thinness of her neck abovethe slight swell of the breast. His imagination was struckby the quality of reticence in her beauty. She suggested afine portrait kept down to a few tones, or a Greek vase onwhich the play of light is the only pattern.
　　After dinner they went out on the terrace for a look at themoon-misted park. Through the crepuscular whiteness thetrees hung in blotted masses. Below the terrace, the gardendrew its dark diagrams between statues that stood likemuffled conspirators on the edge of the shadow. Fartheroff, the meadows unrolled a silver-shot tissue to themantling of mist above the river; and the autumn starstrembled overhead like their own reflections seen in dimwater.
　　He lit his cigar, and they walked slowly up and down theflags in the languid air, till he put an arm about her,saying: "You mustn't stay till you're chilled"; then theywent back into the room and drew up their chairs to thefire.
　　It seemed only a moment later that she said: "It must beafter eleven," and stood up and looked down on him, smilingfaintly. He sat still, absorbing the look, and thinking:
　　"There'll be evenings and evenings"--till she came nearer,bent over him, and with a hand on his shoulder said: "Goodnight."He got to his feet and put his arms about her.
　　"Good night," he answered, and held her fast; and they gaveeach other a long kiss of promise and communion.
　　The memory of it glowed in him still as he sat over hiscrumbling fire; but beneath his physical exultation he felta certain gravity of mood. His happiness was in some sortthe rallying-point of many scattered purposes. He summed itup vaguely by saying to himself that to be loved by a womanlike that made "all the difference"...He was a little tiredof experimenting on life; he wanted to "take a line", tofollow things up, to centralize and concentrate, and produceresults. Two or three more years of diplomacy--with herbeside him!--and then their real life would begin: study,travel and book-making for him, and for her--well, the joy,at any rate, of getting out of an atmosphere of bric-a-bracand card-leaving into the open air of competing activities.
　　The desire for change had for some time been latent in him,and his meeting with Mrs. Leath the previous spring hadgiven it a definite direction. With such a comrade to focusand stimulate his energies he felt modestly but agreeablysure of "doing something". And under this assurance was thelurking sense that he was somehow worthy of his opportunity.
　　His life, on the whole, had been a creditable affair. Outof modest chances and middling talents he had built himselfa fairly marked personality, known some exceptional people,done a number of interesting and a few rather difficultthings, and found himself, at thirty-seven, possessed of anintellectual ambition sufficient to occupy the passage to arobust and energetic old age. As for the private andpersonal side of his life, it had come up to the currentstandards, and if it had dropped, now and then, below a moreideal measure, even these declines had been brief,parenthetic, incidental. In the recognized essentials hehad always remained strictly within the limit of hisscruples.
　　From this reassuring survey of his case he came back to thecontemplation of its crowning felicity. His mind turnedagain to his first meeting with Anna Summers and took up oneby one the threads of their faintly sketched romance. Hedwelt with pardonable pride on the fact that fate had soearly marked him for the high privilege of possessing her:
　　it seemed to mean that they had really, in the truest senseof the ill-used phrase, been made for each other.
　　Deeper still than all these satisfactions was the mereelemental sense of well-being in her presence. That, afterall, was what proved her to be the woman for him: thepleasure he took in the set of her head, the way her hairgrew on her forehead and at the nape, her steady gaze whenhe spoke, the grave freedom of her gait and gestures. Herecalled every detail of her face, the fine veinings of thetemples, the bluish-brown shadows in her upper lids, and theway the reflections of two stars seemed to form and break upin her eyes when he held her close to him...
　　If he had had any doubt as to the nature of her feeling forhim those dissolving stars would have allayed it. She wasreserved, she was shy even, was what the shallow andeffusive would call "cold". She was like a picture so hungthat it can be seen only at a certain angle: an angle knownto no one but its possessor. The thought flattered hissense of possessorship...He felt that the smile on his lipswould have been fatuous had it had a witness. He wasthinking of her look when she had questioned him about hismeeting with Owen at the theatre: less of her words than ofher look, and of the effort the question cost her: thereddening of her cheek, the deepening of the strained linebetween her brows, the way her eyes sought shelter and thenturned and drew on him. Pride and passion were in theconflict--magnificent qualities in a wife! The sight almostmade up for his momentary embarrassment at the rousing of amemory which had no place in his present picture of himself.
　　Yes! It was worth a good deal to watch that fight betweenher instinct and her intelligence, and know one's self theobject of the struggle...
　　Mingled with these sensations were considerations of anotherorder. He reflected with satisfaction that she was the kindof woman with whom one would like to be seen in public. Itwould be distinctly agreeable to follow her into drawing-rooms, to walk after her down the aisle of a theatre, to getin and out of trains with her, to say "my wife" of her toall sorts of people. He draped these details in thehandsome phrase "She's a woman to be proud of", and feltthat this fact somehow justified and ennobled hisinstinctive boyish satisfaction in loving her.
　　He stood up, rambled across the room and leaned out for awhile into the starry night. Then he dropped again into hisarmchair with a sigh of deep content.
　　"Oh, hang it," he suddenly exclaimed, "it's the best thingthat's ever happened to me, anyhow!"The next day was even better. He felt, and knew she felt,that they had reached a clearer understanding of each other.
　　It was as if, after a swim through bright opposing waves,with a dazzle of sun in their eyes, they had gained an inletin the shades of a cliff, where they could float on thestill surface and gaze far down into the depths.
　　Now and then, as they walked and talked, he felt a thrill ofyouthful wonder at the coincidence of their views and theirexperiences, at the way their minds leapt to the same pointin the same instant.
　　"The old delusion, I suppose," he smiled to himself. "WillNature never tire of the trick?"But he knew it was more than that. There were moments intheir talk when he felt, distinctly and unmistakably, thesolid ground of friendship underneath the whirling dance ofhis sensations. "How I should like her if I didn't loveher!" he summed it up, wondering at the miracle of such aunion.
　　In the course of the morning a telegram had come from OwenLeath, announcing that he, his grandmother and Effie wouldarrive from Dijon that afternoon at four. The station of themain line was eight or ten miles from Givre, and Anna, soonafter three, left in the motor to meet the travellers.
　　When she had gone Darrow started for a walk, planning to getback late, in order that the reunited family might have theend of the afternoon to themselves. He roamed the country-side till long after dark, and the stable-clock of Givre wasstriking seven as he walked up the avenue to the court.
　　In the hall, coming down the stairs, he encountered Anna.
　　Her face was serene, and his first glance showed him thatOwen had kept his word and that none of her forebodings hadbeen fulfilled.
　　She had just come down from the school-room, where Effie andthe governess were having supper; the little girl, she toldhim, looked immensely better for her Swiss holiday, but wasdropping with sleep after the journey, and too tired to makeher habitual appearance in the drawing-room before being putto bed. Madame de Chantelle was resting, but would be downfor dinner; and as for Owen, Anna supposed he was offsomewhere in the park--he had a passion for prowling aboutthe park at nightfall...
　　Darrow followed her into the brown room, where the tea-tablehad been left for him. He declined her offer of tea, butshe lingered a moment to tell him that Owen had in fact kepthis word, and that Madame de Chantelle had come back in thebest of humours, and unsuspicious of the blow about to fall.
　　"She has enjoyed her month at Ouchy, and it has given her alot to talk about--her symptoms, and the rival doctors, andthe people at the hotel. It seems she met your Ambassadressthere, and Lady Wantley, and some other London friends ofyours, and she's heard what she calls 'delightful things'
　　about you: she told me to tell you so. She attaches greatimportance to the fact that your grandmother was an Everardof Albany. She's prepared to open her arms to you. I don'tknow whether it won't make it harder for poor Owen...thecontrast, I mean...There are no Ambassadresses or Everardsto vouch for HIS choice! But you'll help me, won't you?
　　You'll help me to help him? To-morrow I'll tell you therest. Now I must rush up and tuck in Effie...""Oh, you'll see, we'll pull it off for him!" he assured her;"together, we can't fail to pull it off."He stood and watched her with a smile as she fled down thehalf-lit vista to the hall.
Chapter 14
    If Darrow, on entering the drawing-room before dinner,examined its new occupant with unusual interest, it was moreon Owen Leath's account than his own.
　　Anna's hints had roused his interest in the lad's loveaffair, and he wondered what manner of girl the heroine ofthe coming conflict might be. He had guessed that Owen'srebellion symbolized for his step-mother her own longstruggle against the Leath conventions, and he understoodthat if Anna so passionately abetted him it was partlybecause, as she owned, she wanted his liberation to coincidewith hers.
　　The lady who was to represent, in the impending struggle,the forces of order and tradition was seated by the firewhen Darrow entered. Among the flowers and old furniture ofthe large pale-panelled room, Madame de Chantelle had theinanimate elegance of a figure introduced into a "still-life" to give the scale. And this, Darrow reflected, wasexactly what she doubtless regarded as her chief obligation:
　　he was sure she thought a great deal of "measure", andapproved of most things only up to a certain point.
　　She was a woman of sixty, with a figure at once young andold-fashioned. Her fair faded tints, her quaint corseting,the passementerie on her tight-waisted dress, the velvetband on her tapering arm, made her resemble a "carte devisite" photograph of the middle sixties. One saw her,younger but no less invincibly lady-like, leaning on a chairwith a fringed back, a curl in her neck, a locket on hertuckered bosom, toward the end of an embossed morocco albumbeginning with The Beauties of the Second Empire.
　　She received her daughter-in-law's suitor with an affabilitywhich implied her knowledge and approval of his suit.
　　Darrow had already guessed her to be a person who wouldinstinctively oppose any suggested changes, and then, afterone had exhausted one's main arguments, unexpectedly yieldto some small incidental reason, and adhere doggedly to hernew position. She boasted of her old-fashioned prejudices,talked a good deal of being a grandmother, and made a showof reaching up to tap Owen's shoulder, though his height waslittle more than hers.
　　She was full of a small pale prattle about the people shehad seen at Ouchy, as to whom she had the minute statisticalinformation of a gazetteer, without any apparent sense ofpersonal differences. She said to Darrow: "They tell methings are very much changed in America...Of course in myyouth there WAS a Society"...She had no desire to returnthere she was sure the standards must be so different.
　　"There are charming people everywhere...and one must alwayslook on the best side...but when one has lived amongTraditions it's difficult to adapt one's self to the newideas...These dreadful views of marriage...it's so hard toexplain them to my French relations...I'm thankful to say Idon't pretend to understand them myself! But YOU'RE anEverard--I told Anna last spring in London that one seesthat instantly"...
　　She wandered off to the cooking and the service of the hotelat Ouchy. She attached great importance to gastronomicdetails and to the manners of hotel servants. There, too,there was a falling off, she said. "I don t know, ofcourse; but people say it's owing to the Americans.
　　Certainly my waiter had a way of slapping down thedishes...they tell me that many of them areAnarchists...belong to Unions, you know." She appealed toDarrow's reported knowledge of economic conditions toconfirm this ominous rumour.
　　After dinner Owen Leath wandered into the next room, wherethe piano stood, and began to play among the shadows. Hisstep-mother presently joined him, and Darrow sat alone withMadame de Chantelle.
　　She took up the thread of her mild chat and carried it on atthe same pace as her knitting. Her conversation resembledthe large loose-stranded web between her fingers: now andthen she dropped a stitch, and went on regardless of the gapin the pattern.
　　Darrow listened with a lazy sense of well-being. In themental lull of the after-dinner hour, with harmoniousmemories murmuring through his mind, and the soft tints andshadowy spaces of the fine old room charming his eyes toindolence, Madame de Chantelle's discourse seemed not out ofplace. He could understand that, in the long run, theatmosphere of Givre might be suffocating; but in his presentmood its very limitations had a grace.
　　Presently he found the chance to say a word in his ownbehalf; and thereupon measured the advantage, never beforeparticularly apparent to him, of being related to theEverards of Albany. Madame de Chantelle's conception of hernative country--to which she had not returned since hertwentieth year--reminded him of an ancient geographer's mapof the Hyperborean regions. It was all a foggy blank, fromwhich only one or two fixed outlines emerged; and one ofthese belonged to the Everards of Albany.
　　The fact that they offered such firm footing--formed, so tospeak, a friendly territory on which the opposing powerscould meet and treat--helped him through the task ofexplaining and justifying himself as the successor of FraserLeath. Madame de Chantelle could not resist suchincontestable claims. She seemed to feel her son's hoveringand discriminating presence, and she gave Darrow the sensethat he was being tested and approved as a last addition tothe Leath Collection.
　　She also made him aware of the immense advantage hepossessed in belonging to the diplomatic profession. Shespoke of this humdrum calling as a Career, and gave Darrowto understand that she supposed him to have been seducingDuchesses when he was not negotiating Treaties. He heardagain quaint phrases which romantic old ladies had used inhis youth: "Brilliant diplomatic society...socialadvantages...the entree everywhere...nothing elseFORMS a young man in the same way..." and she sighinglyadded that she could have wished her grandson had chosen thesame path to glory.
　　Darrow prudently suppressed his own view of the profession,as well as the fact that he had adopted it provisionally,and for reasons less social than sociological; and the talkpresently passed on to the subject of his future plans.
　　Here again, Madame de Chantelle's awe of the Career made heradmit the necessity of Anna's consenting to an earlymarriage. The fact that Darrow was "ordered" to SouthAmerica seemed to put him in the romantic light of a youngsoldier charged to lead a forlorn hope: she sighed and said:
　　"At such moments a wife's duty is at her husband's side."The problem of Effie's future might have disturbed her, sheadded; but since Anna, for a time, consented to leave thelittle girl with her, that problem was at any rate deferred.
　　She spoke plaintively of the responsibility of looking afterher granddaughter, but Darrow divined that she enjoyed theflavour of the word more than she felt the weight of thefact.
　　"Effie's a perfect child. She's more like my son, perhaps,than dear Owen. She'll never intentionally give me theleast trouble. But of course the responsibility will begreat...I'm not sure I should dare to undertake it if itwere not for her having such a treasure of a governess. HasAnna told you about our little governess? After all theworry we had last year, with one impossible creature afteranother, it seems providential, just now, to have found her.
　　At first we were afraid she was too young; but now we've thegreatest confidence in her. So clever and amusing--andSUCH a lady! I don't say her education's all it mightbe...no drawing or singing...but one can't have everything;and she speaks Italian..."Madame de Chantelle's fond insistence on the likenessbetween Effie Leath and her father, if not particularlygratifying to Darrow, had at least increased his desire tosee the little girl. It gave him an odd feeling ofdiscomfort to think that she should have any of thecharacteristics of the late Fraser Leath: he had, somehow,fantastically pictured her as the mystical offspring of theearly tenderness between himself and Anna Summers.
　　His encounter with Effie took place the next morning, on thelawn below the terrace, where he found her, in the earlysunshine, knocking about golf balls with her brother.
　　Almost at once, and with infinite relief, he saw that theresemblance of which Madame de Chantelle boasted was mainlyexternal. Even that discovery was slightly distasteful,though Darrow was forced to own that Fraser Leath'sstraight-featured fairness had lent itself to the productionof a peculiarly finished image of childish purity. But itwas evident that other elements had also gone to the makingof Effie, and that another spirit sat in her eyes. Herserious handshake, her "pretty" greeting, were worthy of theLeath tradition, and he guessed her to be more malleablethan Owen, more subject to the influences of Givre; but theshout with which she returned to her romp had in it the noteof her mother's emancipation.
　　He had begged a holiday for her, and when Mrs. Leathappeared he and she and the little girl went off for aramble. Anna wished her daughter to have time to makefriends with Darrow before learning in what relation he wasto stand to her; and the three roamed the woods and fieldstill the distant chime of the stable-clock made them turnback for luncheon.
　　Effie, who was attended by a shaggy terrier, had picked uptwo or three subordinate dogs at the stable; and as shetrotted on ahead with her yapping escort, Anna hung back tothrow a look at Darrow.
　　"Yes," he answered it, "she's exquisite...Oh, I see what I'masking of you! But she'll be quite happy here, won't she?
　　And you must remember it won't be for long..."Anna sighed her acquiescence. "Oh, she'll be happy here.
　　It's her nature to be happy. She'll apply herself to it,conscientiously, as she does to her lessons, and to what shecalls 'being good'...In a way, you see, that's just whatworries me. Her idea of 'being good' is to please theperson she's with--she puts her whole dear little mind onit! And so, if ever she's with the wrong person----""But surely there's no danger of that just now? Madame deChantelle tells me that you've at last put your hand on aperfect governess----"Anna, without answering, glanced away from him toward herdaughter.
　　"It's lucky, at any rate," Darrow continued, "that Madame deChantelle thinks her so.""Oh, I think very highly of her too.""Highly enough to feel quite satisfied to leave her withEffie?""Yes. She's just the person for Effie. Only, of course,one never knows...She's young, and she might take it intoher head to leave us..." After a pause she added: "I'mnaturally anxious to know what you think of her."When they entered the house the hands of the hall clockstood within a few minutes of the luncheon hour. Anna ledEffie off to have her hair smoothed and Darrow wandered intothe oak sitting-room, which he found untenanted. The sunlay pleasantly on its brown walls, on the scattered booksand the flowers in old porcelain vases. In his eyeslingered the vision of the dark-haired mother mounting thestairs with her little fair daughter. The contrast betweenthem seemed a last touch of grace in the complex harmony ofthings. He stood in the window, looking out at the park,and brooding inwardly upon his happiness...
　　He was roused by Effie's voice and the scamper of her feetdown the long floors behind him.
　　"Here he is! Here he is!" she cried, flying over thethreshold.
　　He turned and stooped to her with a smile, and as she caughthis hand he perceived that she was trying to draw him towardsome one who had paused behind her in the doorway, and whomhe supposed to be her mother.
　　"HERE he is!" Effie repeated, with her sweet impatience.
　　The figure in the doorway came forward and Darrow, lookingup, found himself face to face with Sophy Viner. They stoodstill, a yard or two apart, and looked at each other withoutspeaking.
　　As they paused there, a shadow fell across one of theterrace windows, and Owen Leath stepped whistling into theroom. In his rough shooting clothes, with the glow ofexercise under his fair skin, he looked extraordinarilylight-hearted and happy. Darrow, with a quick side-glance,noticed this, and perceived also that the glow on theyouth's cheek had deepened suddenly to red. He too stoppedshort, and the three stood there motionless for a barelyperceptible beat of time. During its lapse, Darrow's eyeshad turned back from Owen's face to that of the girl betweenthem. He had the sense that, whatever was done, it was hewho must do it, and that it must be done immediately. Hewent forward and held out his hand.
　　"How do you do, Miss Viner?"She answered: "How do you do?" in a voice that sounded clearand natural; and the next moment he again became aware ofsteps behind him, and knew that Mrs. Leath was in the room.
　　To his strained senses there seemed to be another justmeasurable pause before Anna said, looking gaily about thelittle group: "Has Owen introduced you? This is Effie'sfriend, Miss Viner."Effie, still hanging on her governess's arm, pressed herselfcloser with a little gesture of appropriation; and MissViner laid her hand on her pupil's hair.
　　Darrow felt that Anna's eyes had turned to him.
　　"I think Miss Viner and I have met already--several yearsago in London.""I remember," said Sophy Viner, in the same clear voice.
　　"How charming! Then we're all friends. But luncheon must beready," said Mrs. Leath.
　　She turned back to the door, and the little procession moveddown the two long drawing-rooms, with Effie waltzing onahead.
Chapter 15
    Madame de Chantelle and Anna had planned, for the afternoon,a visit to a remotely situated acquaintance whom theintroduction of the motor had transformed into a neighbour.
　　Effie was to pay for her morning's holiday by an hour or twoin the school-room, and Owen suggested that he and Darrowshould betake themselves to a distant covert in thedesultory quest for pheasants.
　　Darrow was not an ardent sportsman, but any pretext forphysical activity would have been acceptable at the moment;and he was glad both to get away from the house and not tobe left to himself.
　　When he came downstairs the motor was at the door, and Annastood before the hall mirror, swathing her hat in veils.
　　She turned at the sound of his step and smiled at him for along full moment.
　　"I'd no idea you knew Miss Viner," she said, as he helpedher into her long coat.
　　"It came back to me, luckily, that I'd seen her two or threetimes in London, several years ago. She was secretary, orsomething of the sort, in the background of a house where Iused to dine."He loathed the slighting indifference of the phrase, but hehad uttered it deliberately, had been secretly practising itall through the interminable hour at the luncheon-table.
　　Now that it was spoken, he shivered at its note ofcondescension. In such cases one was almost sure tooverdo...But Anna seemed to notice nothing unusual.
　　"Was she really? You must tell me all about it--tell meexactly how she struck you. I'm so glad it turns out thatyou know her.""'Know' is rather exaggerated: we used to pass each other onthe stairs."Madame de Chantelle and Owen appeared together as he spoke,and Anna, gathering up her wraps, said: "You'll tell meabout that, then. Try and remember everything you can."As he tramped through the woods at his young host's side,Darrow felt the partial relief from thought produced byexercise and the obligation to talk. Little as he cared forshooting, he had the habit of concentration which makes itnatural for a man to throw himself wholly into whateverbusiness he has in hand, and there were moments of theafternoon when a sudden whirr in the undergrowth, a vividergleam against the hazy browns and greys of the woods, wasenough to fill the foreground of his attention. But all thewhile, behind these voluntarily emphasized sensations, hissecret consciousness continued to revolve on a loud wheel ofthought. For a time it seemed to be sweeping him throughdeep gulfs of darkness. His sensations were too swift andswarming to be disentangled. He had an almost physicalsense of struggling for air, of battling helplessly withmaterial obstructions, as though the russet covert throughwhich he trudged were the heart of a maleficent jungle...
　　Snatches of his companion's talk drifted to himintermittently through the confusion of his thoughts. Hecaught eager self-revealing phrases, and understood thatOwen was saying things about himself, perhaps hintingindirectly at the hopes for which Darrow had been preparedby Anna's confidences. He had already become aware that thelad liked him, and had meant to take the first opportunityof showing that he reciprocated the feeling. But the effortof fixing his attention on Owen's words was so great that itleft no power for more than the briefest and mostinexpressive replies.
　　Young Leath, it appeared, felt that he had reached aturning-point in his career, a height from which he couldimpartially survey his past progress and projectedendeavour. At one time he had had musical and literaryyearnings, visions of desultory artistic indulgence; butthese had of late been superseded by the resolutedetermination to plunge into practical life.
　　"I don't want, you see," Darrow heard him explaining, "todrift into what my grandmother, poor dear, is trying to makeof me: an adjunct of Givre. I don't want--hang it all!--toslip into collecting sensations as my father collectedsnuff-boxes. I want Effie to have Givre--it's mygrandmother's, you know, to do as she likes with; and I'veunderstood lately that if it belonged to me it wouldgradually gobble me up. I want to get out of it, into alife that's big and ugly and struggling. If I can extractbeauty out of THAT, so much the better: that'll prove myvocation. But I want to MAKE beauty, not be drowned inthe ready-made, like a bee in a pot of honey."Darrow knew that he was being appealed to for corroborationof these views and for encouragement in the course to whichthey pointed. To his own ears his answers sounded now curt,now irrelevant: at one moment he seemed chillinglyindifferent, at another he heard himself launching out on aflood of hazy discursiveness. He dared not look at Owen,for fear of detecting the lad's surprise at these senselesstransitions. And through the confusion of his inwardstruggles and outward loquacity he heard the ceaseless trip-hammer beat of the question: "What in God's name shall Ido?"...
　　To get back to the house before Anna's return seemed hismost pressing necessity. He did not clearly know why: hesimply felt that he ought to be there. At one moment itoccurred to him that Miss Viner might want to speak to himalone--and again, in the same flash, that it would probablybe the last thing she would want...At any rate, he felt heought to try to speak to HER; or at least be prepared todo so, if the chance should occur...
　　Finally, toward four, he told his companion that he had someletters on his mind and must get back to the house anddespatch them before the ladies returned. He left Owen withthe beater and walked on to the edge of the covert. At thepark gates he struck obliquely through the trees, followinga grass avenue at the end of which he had caught a glimpseof the roof of the chapel. A grey haze had blotted out thesun and the still air clung about him tepidly. At lengththe house-front raised before him its expanse of damp-silvered brick, and he was struck afresh by the high decorumof its calm lines and soberly massed surfaces. It made himfeel, in the turbid coil of his fears and passions, like amuddy tramp forcing his way into some pure sequesteredshrine...
　　By and bye, he knew, he should have to think the complexhorror out, slowly, systematically, bit by bit; but for themoment it was whirling him about so fast that he could justclutch at its sharp spikes and be tossed off again. Onlyone definite immediate fact stuck in his quivering grasp.
　　He must give the girl every chance--must hold himselfpassive till she had taken them...
　　In the court Effie ran up to him with her leaping terrier.
　　"I was coming out to meet you--you and Owen. Miss Viner wascoming, too, and then she couldn't because she's got such aheadache. I'm afraid I gave it to her because I did mydivision so disgracefully. It's too bad, isn't it? Butwon't you walk back with me? Nurse won't mind the least bit;she'd so much rather go in to tea."Darrow excused himself laughingly, on the plea that he hadletters to write, which was much worse than having aheadache, and not infrequently resulted in one.
　　"Oh, then you can go and write them in Owen's study. That'swhere gentlemen always write their letters."She flew on with her dog and Darrow pursued his way to thehouse. Effie's suggestion struck him as useful. He hadpictured himself as vaguely drifting about the drawing-rooms, and had perceived the difficulty of Miss Viner'shaving to seek him there; but the study, a small room on theright of the hall, was in easy sight from the staircase, andso situated that there would be nothing marked in his beingfound there in talk with her.
　　He went in, leaving the door open, and sat down at thewriting-table. The room was a friendly heterogeneous place,the one repository, in the well-ordered and amply-servantedhouse, of all its unclassified odds and ends: Effie'scroquet-box and fishing rods, Owen's guns and golf-sticksand racquets, his step-mother's flower-baskets and gardeningimplements, even Madame de Chantelle's embroidery frame, andthe back numbers of the Catholic Weekly. The early twilighthad begun to fall, and presently a slanting ray across thedesk showed Darrow that a servant was coming across the hallwith a lamp. He pulled out a sheet of note-paper and beganto write at random, while the man, entering, put the lamp athis elbow and vaguely "straightened" the heap of newspaperstossed on the divan. Then his steps died away and Darrowsat leaning his head on his locked hands.
　　Presently another step sounded on the stairs, wavered amoment and then moved past the threshold of the study.
　　Darrow got up and walked into the hall, which was stillunlighted. In the dimness he saw Sophy Viner standing bythe hall door in her hat and jacket. She stopped at sightof him, her hand on the door-bolt, and they stood for asecond without speaking.
　　"Have you seen Effie?" she suddenly asked. "She went out tomeet you.""She DID meet me, just now, in the court. She's gone onto join her brother."Darrow spoke as naturally as he could, but his voice soundedto his own ears like an amateur actor's in a "light" part.
　　Miss Viner, without answering, drew back the bolt. Hewatched her in silence as the door swung open; then he said:
　　"She has hernurse with her. She won't be long."She stood irresolute, and he added: "I was writing in there--won't you come and have a little talk? Every one's out."The last words struck him as not well-chosen, but there wasno time to choose. She paused a second longer and thencrossed the threshold of the study. At luncheon she had satwith her back to the window, and beyond noting that she hadgrown a little thinner, and had less colour and vivacity, hehad seen no change in her; but now, as the lamplight fell onher face, its whiteness startled him.
　　"Poor thing...poor thing...what in heaven's name can shesuppose?" he wondered.
　　"Do sit down--I want to talk to you," he said and pushed achair toward her.
　　She did not seem to see it, or, if she did, she deliberatelychose another seat. He came back to his own chair andleaned his elbows on the blotter. She faced him from thefarther side of the table.
　　"You promised to let me hear from you now and then," hebegan awkwardly, and with a sharp sense of his awkwardness.
　　A faint smile made her face more tragic. "Did I? There wasnothing to tell. I've had no history--like the happycountries..."He waited a moment before asking: "You ARE happy here?""I WAS," she said with a faint emphasis.
　　"Why do you say 'was'? You're surely not thinking of going?
　　There can't be kinder people anywhere." Darrow hardly knewwhat he was saying; but her answer came to him with deadlydefiniteness.
　　"I suppose it depends on you whether I go or stay.""On me?" He stared at her across Owen's scattered papers.
　　"Good God! What can you think of me, to say that?"The mockery of the question flashed back at him from herwretched face. She stood up, wandered away, and leaned aninstant in the darkening window-frame. From there sheturned to fling back at him: "Don't imagine I'm the leastbit sorry for anything!"He steadied his elbows on the table and hid his face in hishands. It was harder, oh, damnably harder, than he hadexpected! Arguments, expedients, palliations, evasions, allseemed to be slipping away from him: he was left face toface with the mere graceless fact of his inferiority. Helifted his head to ask at random: "You've been here, then,ever since?""Since June; yes. It turned out that the Farlows werehunting for me--all the while--for this."She stood facing him, her back to the window, evidentlyimpatient to be gone, yet with something still to say, orthat she expected to hear him say. The sense of herexpectancy benumbed him. What in heaven's name could he sayto her that was not an offense or a mockery?
　　"Your idea of the theatre--you gave that up at once, then?""Oh, the theatre!" She gave a little laugh. "I couldn'twait for the theatre. I had to take the first thing thatoffered; I took this."He pushed on haltingly: "I'm glad--extremely glad--you'rehappy here...I'd counted on your letting me know if therewas anything I could do...The theatre, now--if you stillregret it--if you're not contented here...I know people inthat line in London--I'm certain I can manage it for youwhen I get back----"She moved up to the table and leaned over it to ask, in avoice that was hardly above a whisper: "Then you DO wantme to leave? Is that it?"He dropped his arms with a groan. "Good heavens! How canyou think such things? At the time, you know, I begged youto let me do what I could, but you wouldn't hear of it...andever since I've been wanting to be of use--to do something,anything, to help you..."She heard him through, motionless, without a quiver of theclasped hands she rested on the edge of the table.
　　"If you want to help me, then--you can help me to stayhere," she brought out with low-toned intensity.
　　Through the stillness of the pause which followed, the brayof a motor-horn sounded far down the drive. Instantly sheturned, with a last white look at him, and fled from theroom and up the stairs. He stood motionless, benumbed bythe shock of her last words. She was afraid, then--afraidof him--sick with fear of him! The discovery beat him downto a lower depth...
　　The motor-horn sounded again, close at hand, and he turnedand went up to his room. His letter-writing was asufficient pretext for not immediately joining the partyabout the tea-table, and he wanted to be alone and try toput a little order into his tumultuous thinking.
　　Upstairs, the room held out the intimate welcome of its lampand fire. Everything in it exhaled the same sense of peaceand stability which, two evenings before, had lulled him tocomplacent meditation. His armchair again invited him fromthe hearth, but he was too agitated to sit still, and withsunk head and hands clasped behind his back he began towander up and down the room.
　　His five minutes with Sophy Viner had flashed strange lightsinto the shadowy corners of his consciousness. The girl'sabsolute candour, her hard ardent honesty, was for themoment the vividest point in his thoughts. He wondered anew,as he had wondered before, at the way in which the harshdiscipline of life had stripped her of false sentimentwithout laying the least touch on her pride. When they hadparted, five months before, she had quietly but decidedlyrejected all his offers of help, even to the suggestion ofhis trying to further her theatrical aims: she had made itclear that she wished their brief alliance to leave no traceon their lives save that of its own smiling memory. But nowthat they were unexpectedly confronted in a situation whichseemed, to her terrified fancy, to put her at his mercy, herfirst impulse was to defend her right to the place she hadwon, and to learn as quickly as possible if he meant todispute it. While he had pictured her as shrinking awayfrom him in a tremor of self-effacement she had watched hismovements, made sure of her opportunity, and come straightdown to "have it out" with him. He was so struck by thefrankness and energy of the proceeding that for a moment helost sight of the view of his own character implied in it.
　　"Poor thing...poor thing!" he could only go on saying; andwith the repetition of the words the picture of himself asshe must see him pitiably took shape again.
　　He understood then, for the first time, how vague, incomparison with hers, had been his own vision of the part hehad played in the brief episode of their relation. Theincident had left in him a sense of exasperation and self-contempt, but that, as he now perceived, was chiefly, if notaltogether, as it bore on his preconceived ideal of hisattitude toward another woman. He had fallen below his ownstandard of sentimental loyalty, and if he thought of SophyViner it was mainly as the chance instrument of his lapse.
　　These considerations were not agreeable to his pride, butthey were forced on him by the example of her valiantcommon-sense. If he had cut a sorry figure in the business,he owed it to her not to close his eyes to the fact anylonger...
　　But when he opened them, what did he see? The situation,detestable at best, would yet have been relatively simple ifprotecting Sophy Viner had been the only duty involved init. The fact that that duty was paramount did not do awaywith the contingent obligations. It was Darrow's instinct,in difficult moments, to go straight to the bottom of thedifficulty; but he had never before had to take so dark adive as this, and for the minute he shivered on thebrink...Well, his first duty, at any rate, was to the girl:
　　he must let her see that he meant to fulfill it to the lastjot, and then try to find out how to square the fulfillmentwith the other problems already in his path...
Chapter 16
    In the oak room he found Mrs. Leath, her mother-in-law andEffie. The group, as he came toward it down the longdrawing-rooms, composed itself prettily about the tea-table.
　　The lamps and the fire crossed their gleams on silver andporcelain, on the bright haze of Effie's hair and on thewhiteness of Anna's forehead, as she leaned back in herchair behind the tea-urn.
　　She did not move at Darrow's approach, but lifted to him adeep gaze of peace and confidence. The look seemed to throwabout him the spell of a divine security: he felt the joy ofa convalescent suddenly waking to find the sunlight on hisface.
　　Madame de Chantelle, across her knitting, discoursed oftheir afternoon's excursion, with occasional pauses inducedby the hypnotic effect of the fresh air; and Effie,kneeling, on the hearth, softly but insistently sought toimplant in her terrier's mind some notion of the relationbetween a vertical attitude and sugar.
　　Darrow took a chair behind the little girl, so that he mightlook across at her mother. It was almost a necessity forhim, at the moment, to let his eyes rest on Anna's face, andto meet, now and then, the proud shyness of her gaze.
　　Madame de Chantelle presently enquired what had become ofOwen, and a moment later the window behind her opened, andher grandson, gun in hand, came in from the terrace. As hestood there in the lamp-light, with dead leaves and bits ofbramble clinging to his mud-spattered clothes, the scent ofthe night about him and its chill on his pale bright face,he really had the look of a young faun strayed in from theforest.
　　Effie abandoned the terrier to fly to him. "Oh, Owen, wherein the world have you been? I walked miles and miles withNurse and couldn't find you, and we met Jean and he said hedidn't know where you'd gone.""Nobody knows where I go, or what I see when I get there--that's the beauty of it!" he laughed back at her. "But ifyou're good," he added, "I'll tell you about it one of thesedays.""Oh, now, Owen, now! I don't really believe I'll ever bemuch better than I am now.""Let Owen have his tea first," her mother suggested; but theyoung man, declining the offer, propped his gun against thewall, and, lighting a cigarette, began to pace up and downthe room in a way that reminded Darrow of his own cagedwanderings. Effie pursued him with her blandishments, andfor a while he poured out to her a low-voiced stream ofnonsense; then he sat down beside his step-mother and leanedover to help himself to tea.
　　"Where's Miss Viner?" he asked, as Effie climbed up on him.
　　"Why isn't she here to chain up this ungovernable infant?""Poor Miss Viner has a headache. Effie says she went to herroom as soon as lessons were over, and sent word that shewouldn't be down for tea.""Ah," said Owen, abruptly setting down his cup. He stoodup, lit another cigarette, and wandered away to the piano inthe room beyond.
　　From the twilight where he sat a lonely music, borne onfantastic chords, floated to the group about the tea-table.
　　Under its influence Madame de Chantelle's meditative pausesincreased in length and frequency, and Effie stretchedherself on the hearth, her drowsy head against the dog.
　　Presently her nurse appeared, and Anna rose at the sametime. "Stop a minute in my sitting-room on your way up,"she paused to say to Darrow as she went.
　　A few hours earlier, her request would have brought himinstantly to his feet. She had given him, on the day of hisarrival, an inviting glimpse of the spacious book-lined roomabove stairs in which she had gathered together all thetokens of her personal tastes: the retreat in which, as onemight fancy, Anna Leath had hidden the restless ghost ofAnna Summers; and the thought of a talk with her there hadbeen in his mind ever since. But now he sat motionless, asif spell-bound by the play of Madame de Chantelle's needlesand the pulsations of Owen's fitful music.
　　"She will want to ask me about the girl," he repeated tohimself, with a fresh sense of the insidious taint thatembittered all his thoughts; the hand of the slender-columned clock on the mantel-piece had spanned a half-hourbefore shame at his own indecision finally drew him to hisfeet.
　　From her writing-table, where she sat over a pile ofletters, Anna lifted her happy smile. The impulse to presshis lips to it made him come close and draw her upward. Shethrew her head back, as if surprised at the abruptness ofthe gesture; then her face leaned to his with the slow droopof a flower. He felt again the sweep of the secret tides,and all his fears went down in them.
　　She sat down in the sofa-corner by the fire and he drew anarmchair close to her. His gaze roamed peacefully about thequiet room.
　　"It's just like you--it is you," he said, as his eyes cameback to her.
　　"It's a good place to be alone in--I don't think I've everbefore cared to talk with any one here.""Let's be quiet, then: it's the best way of talking.""Yes; but we must save it up till later. There are things Iwant to say to you now."He leaned back in his chair. "Say them, then, and I'lllisten.""Oh, no. I want you to tell me about Miss Viner.""About Miss Viner?" He summoned up a look of faintinterrogation.
　　He thought she seemed surprised at his surprise. "It'simportant, naturally," she explained, "that I should findout all I can about her before I leave.""Important on Effie's account?""On Effie's account--of course.""Of course...But you've every reason to be satisfied,haven't you?""Every apparent reason. We all like her. Effie's very fondof her, and she seems to have a delightful influence on thechild. But we know so little, after all--about herantecedents, I mean, and her past history. That's why Iwant you to try and recall everything you heard about herwhen you used to see her in London.""Oh, on that score I'm afraid I sha'n't be of much use. As Itold you, she was a mere shadow in the background of thehouse I saw her in--and that was four or five years ago...""When she was with a Mrs. Murrett?""Yes; an appalling woman who runs a roaring dinner-factorythat used now and then to catch me in its wheels. I escapedfrom them long ago; but in my time there used to be half adozen fagged 'hands' to tend the machine, and Miss Viner wasone of them. I'm glad she's out of it, poor girl!""Then you never really saw anything of her there?""I never had the chance. Mrs. Murrett discouraged anycompetition on the part of her subordinates.""Especially such pretty ones, I suppose?" Darrow made nocomment, and she continued: "And Mrs. Murrett's own opinion--if she'd offered you one--probably wouldn't have been ofmuch value?""Only in so far as her disapproval would, on generalprinciples, have been a good mark for Miss Viner. Butsurely," he went on after a pause, "you could have found outabout her from the people through whom you first heard ofher?"Anna smiled. "Oh, we heard of her through Adelaide Painter--;" and in reply to his glance of interrogation sheexplained that the lady in question was a spinster of SouthBraintree, Massachusetts, who, having come to Paris somethirty years earlier, to nurse a brother through an illness,had ever since protestingly and provisionally camped therein a state of contemptuous protestation oddly manifested byher never taking the slip-covers off her drawing-roomchairs. Her long residence on Gallic soil had not mitigatedher hostility toward the creed and customs of the race, butthough she always referred to the Catholic Church as theScarlet Woman and took the darkest views of French privatelife, Madame de Chantelle placed great reliance on herjudgment and experience, and in every domestic crisis theirreducible Adelaide was immediately summoned to Givre.
　　"It's all the odder because my mother-in-law, since hersecond marriage, has lived so much in the country that she'spractically lost sight of all her other American friends.
　　Besides which, you can see how completely she has identifiedherself with Monsieur de Chantelle's nationality and adoptedFrench habits and prejudices. Yet when anything goes wrongshe always sends for Adelaide Painter, who's more Americanthan the Stars and Stripes, and might have left SouthBraintree yesterday, if she hadn't, rather, brought it overwith her in her trunk."Darrow laughed. "Well, then, if South Braintree vouches forMiss Viner----""Oh, but only indirectly. When we had that odious adventurewith Mademoiselle Grumeau, who'd been so highly recommendedby Monsieur de Chantelle's aunt, the Chanoinesse, Adelaidewas of course sent for, and she said at once: 'I'm not theleast bit surprised. I've always told you that what youwanted for Effie was a sweet American girl, and not one ofthese nasty foreigners.' Unluckily she couldn't, at themoment, put her hand on a sweet American; but she presentlyheard of Miss Viner through the Farlows, an excellent couplewho live in the Quartier Latin and write about French lifefor the American papers. I was only too thankful to findanyone who was vouched for by decent people; and so far I'vehad no cause to regret my choice. But I know, after all,very little about Miss Viner; and there are all kinds ofreasons why I want, as soon as possible, to find out more--to find out all I can.""Since you've got to leave Effie I understand your feelingin that way. But is there, in such a case, anyrecommendation worth half as much as your own directexperience?""No; and it's been so favourable that I was ready to acceptit as conclusive. Only, naturally, when I found you'd knownher in London I was in hopes you'd give me some morespecific reasons for liking her as much as I do.""I'm afraid I can give you nothing more specific than mygeneral vague impression that she seems very plucky andextremely nice.""You don't, at any rate, know anything specific to thecontrary?""To the contrary? How should I? I'm not conscious of everhaving heard any one say two words about her. I only inferthat she must have pluck and character to have stuck it outso long at Mrs. Murrett's.""Yes, poor thing! She has pluck, certainly; and pride, too;which must have made it all the harder." Anna rose to herfeet. "You don't know how glad I am that your impression'son the whole so good. I particularly wanted you to likeher."He drew her to him with a smile. "On that condition I'mprepared to love even Adelaide Painter.""I almost hope you wont have the chance to--poor Adelaide!
　　Her appearance here always coincides with a catastrophe.""Oh, then I must manage to meet her elsewhere." He held Annacloser, saying to himself, as he smoothed back the hair fromher forehead: "What does anything matter but just THIS?
　　--Must I go now?" he added aloud.
　　She answered absently: "It must be time to dress"; then shedrew back a little and laid her hands on his shoulders. "Mylove--oh, my dear love!" she said.
　　It came to him that they were the first words of endearmenthe had heard her speak, and their rareness gave them a magicquality of reassurance, as though no danger could strikethrough such a shield.
　　A knock on the door made them draw apart. Anna lifted herhand to her hair and Darrow stooped to examine a photographof Effie on the writing-table.
　　"Come in!" Anna said.
　　The door opened and Sophy Viner entered. Seeing Darrow, shedrew back.
　　"Do come in, Miss Viner," Anna repeated, looking at herkindly.
　　The girl, a quick red in her cheeks, still hesitated on thethreshold.
　　"I'm so sorry; but Effie has mislaid her Latin grammar, andI thought she might have left it here. I need it to preparefor tomorrow's lesson.""Is this it?" Darrow asked, picking up a book from thetable.
　　"Oh, thank you!"He held it out to her and she took it and moved to the door.
　　"Wait a minute, please, Miss Viner," Anna said; and as thegirl turned back, she went on with her quiet smile: "Effietold us you'd gone to your room with a headache. You mustn'tsit up over tomorrow's lessons if you don't feel well."Sophy's blush deepened. "But you see I have to. Latin's oneof my weak points, and there's generally only one page ofthis book between me and Effie." She threw the words offwith a half-ironic smile. "Do excuse my disturbing you,"she added.
　　"You didn't disturb me," Anna answered. Darrow perceivedthat she was looking intently at the girl, as though struckby something tense and tremulous in her face, her voice, herwhole mien and attitude. "You DO look tired. You'dmuch better go straight to bed. Effie won't be sorry to skipher Latin.""Thank you--but I'm really all right," murmured Sophy Viner.
　　Her glance, making a swift circuit of the room, dwelt for anappreciable instant on the intimate propinquity of arm-chairand sofa-corner; then she turned back to the door.
Chapter 17
    At dinner that evening Madame de Chantelle's slendermonologue was thrown out over gulfs of silence. Owen wasstill in the same state of moody abstraction as when Darrowhad left him at the piano; and even Anna's face, to herfriend's vigilant eye, revealed not, perhaps, a personalpreoccupation, but a vague sense of impending disturbance.
　　She smiled, she bore a part in the talk, her eyes dwelt onDarrow's with their usual deep reliance; but beneath thesurface of her serenity his tense perceptions detected ahidden stir.
　　He was sufficiently self-possessed to tell himself that itwas doubtless due to causes with which he was not directlyconcerned. He knew the question of Owen's marriage was soonto be raised, and the abrupt alteration in the young man'smood made it seem probable that he was himself the centre ofthe atmospheric disturbance, For a moment it occurred toDarrow that Anna might have employed her afternoon inpreparing Madame de Chantelle for her grandson's impendingannouncement; but a glance at the elder lady's uncloudedbrow showed that he must seek elsewhere the clue to Owen'staciturnity and his step-mother's concern. Possibly Annahad found reason to change her own attitude in the matter,and had made the change known to Owen. But this, again, wasnegatived by the fact that, during the afternoon's shooting,young Leath had been in a mood of almost extravagantexpansiveness, and that, from the moment of his late returnto the house till just before dinner, there had been, toDarrow's certain knowledge, no possibility of a private talkbetween himself and his step-mother.
　　This obscured, if it narrowed, the field of conjecture; andDarrow's gropings threw him back on the conclusion that hewas probably reading too much significance into the moods ofa lad he hardly knew, and who had been described to him assubject to sudden changes of humour. As to Anna's fanciedperturbation, it might simply be due to the fact that shehad decided to plead Owen's cause the next day, and hadperhaps already had a glimpse of the difficulties awaitingher. But Darrow knew that he was too deep in his ownperplexities to judge the mental state of those about him.
　　It might be, after all, that the variations he felt in thecurrents of communication were caused by his own inwardtremor.
　　Such, at any rate, was the conclusion he had reached when,shortly after the two ladies left the drawing-room, he badeOwen good-night and went up to his room. Ever since therapid self-colloquy which had followed on his first sight ofSophy Viner, he had known there were other questions to befaced behind the one immediately confronting him. On thescore of that one, at least, his mind, if not easy, wasrelieved. He had done what was possible to reassure thegirl, and she had apparently recognized the sincerity of hisintention. He had patched up as decent a conclusion as hecould to an incident that should obviously have had nosequel; but he had known all along that with the securing ofMiss Viner's peace of mind only a part of his obligation wasdischarged, and that with that part his remaining duty wasin conflict. It had been his first business to convince thegirl that their secret was safe with him; but it was farfrom easy to square this with the equally urgent obligationof safe-guarding Anna's responsibility toward her child.
　　Darrow was not much afraid of accidental disclosures. Bothhe and Sophy Viner had too much at stake not to be on theirguard. The fear that beset him was of another kind, and hada profounder source. He wanted to do all he could for thegirl, but the fact of having had to urge Anna to confideEffie to her was peculiarly repugnant to him. His own ideasabout Sophy Viner were too mixed and indeterminate for himnot to feel the risk of such an experiment; yet he foundhimself in the intolerable position of appearing to press iton the woman he desired above all others to protect...
　　Till late in the night his thoughts revolved in a turmoil ofindecision. His pride was humbled by the discrepancybetween what Sophy Viner had been to him and what he hadthought of her. This discrepancy, which at the time hadseemed to simplify the incident, now turned out to be itsmost galling complication. The bare truth, indeed, was thathe had hardly thought of her at all, either at the time orsince, and that he was ashamed to base his judgement of heron his meagre memory of their adventure.
　　The essential cheapness of the whole affair--as far as hisshare in it was concerned--came home to him with humiliatingdistinctness. He would have liked to be able to feel that,at the time at least, he had staked something more on it,and had somehow, in the sequel, had a more palpable loss toshow. But the plain fact was that he hadn't spent a pennyon it; which was no doubt the reason of the prodigious scoreit had since been rolling up. At any rate, beat about thecase as he would, it was clear that he owed it to Anna--andincidentally to his own peace of mind--to find some way ofsecuring Sophy Viner's future without leaving her installedat Givre when he and his wife should depart for their newpost.
　　The night brought no aid to the solving of this problem; butit gave him, at any rate, the clear conviction that no timewas to be lost. His first step must be to obtain from MissViner the chance of another and calmer talk; and he resolvedto seek it at the earliest hour.
　　He had gathered that Effie's lessons were preceded by anearly scamper in the park, and conjecturing that hergoverness might be with her he betook himself the nextmorning to the terrace, whence he wandered on to the gardensand the walks beyond.
　　The atmosphere was still and pale. The muffled sunlightgleamed like gold tissue through grey gauze, and the beechalleys tapered away to a blue haze blent of sky and forest.
　　It was one of those elusive days when the familiar forms ofthings seem about to dissolve in a prismatic shimmer.
　　The stillness was presently broken by joyful barks, andDarrow, tracking the sound, overtook Effie flying down oneof the long alleys at the head of her pack. Beyond her hesaw Miss Viner seated near the stone-rimmed basin besidewhich he and Anna had paused on their first walk to theriver.
　　The girl, coming forward at his approach, returned hisgreeting almost gaily. His first glance showed him that shehad regained her composure, and the change in her appearancegave him the measure of her fears. For the first time hesaw in her again the sidelong grace that had charmed hiseyes in Paris; but he saw it now as in a painted picture.
　　"Shall we sit down a minute?" he asked, as Effie trottedoff.
　　The girl looked away from him. "I'm afraid there's not muchtime; we must be back at lessons at half-past nine.""But it's barely ten minutes past. Let's at least walk alittle way toward the river."She glanced down the long walk ahead of them and then backin the direction of the house. "If you like," she said in alow voice, with one of her quick fluctuations of colour; butinstead of taking the way he proposed she turned toward anarrow path which branched off obliquely through the trees.
　　Darrow was struck, and vaguely troubled, by the change inher look and tone. There was in them an undefinable appeal,whether for help or forbearance he could not tell. Then itoccurred to him that there might have been somethingmisleading in his so pointedly seeking her, and he felt amomentary constraint. To ease it he made an abrupt dash atthe truth.
　　"I came out to look for you because our talk of yesterdaywas so unsatisfactory. I want to hear more about you--aboutyour plans and prospects. I've been wondering ever sincewhy you've so completely given up the theatre."Her face instantly sharpened to distrust. "I had to live,"she said in an off-hand tone.
　　"I understand perfectly that you should like it here--for atime." His glance strayed down the gold-roofed windingsahead of them. "It's delightful: you couldn't be betterplaced. Only I wonder a little at your having so completelygiven up any idea of a different future."She waited for a moment before answering: "I suppose I'mless restless than I used to be.""It's certainly natural that you should be less restlesshere than at Mrs. Murrett's; yet somehow I don't seem to seeyou permanently given up to forming the young.""What--exactly--DO you seem to see me permanently givenup to? You know you warned me rather emphatically againstthe theatre." She threw off the statement withoutimpatience, as though they were discussing together the fateof a third person in whom both were benevolently interested.
　　Darrow considered his reply. "If I did, it was because youso emphatically refused to let me help you to a start."She stopped short and faced him "And you think I may let younow?"Darrow felt the blood in his cheek. He could not understandher attitude--if indeed she had consciously taken one, andher changes of tone did not merely reflect the involuntaryalternations of her mood. It humbled him to perceive oncemore how little he had to guide him in his judgment of her.
　　He said to himself: "If I'd ever cared a straw for her Ishould know how to avoid hurting her now"--and hisinsensibility struck him as no better than a vulgarobtuseness. But he had a fixed purpose ahead and could onlypush on to it.
　　"I hope, at any rate, you'll listen to my reasons. There'sbeen time, on both sides, to think them over since----" Hecaught himself back and hung helpless on the "since":
　　whatever words he chose, he seemed to stumble amongreminders of their past.
　　She walked on beside him, her eyes on the ground. "Then I'mto understand--definitely--that you DO renew youroffer?" she asked"With all my heart! If you'll only let me----"She raised a hand, as though to check him. "It's extremelyfriendly of you--I DO believe you mean it as a friend--but I don't quite understand why, finding me, as you say, sowell placed here, you should show more anxiety about myfuture than at a time when I was actually, and ratherdesperately, adrift.""Oh, no, not more!""If you show any at all, it must, at any rate, be fordifferent reasons.--In fact, it can only be," she went on,with one of her disconcerting flashes of astuteness, "forone of two reasons; either because you feel you ought tohelp me, or because, for some reason, you think you owe itto Mrs. Leath to let her know what you know of me."Darrow stood still in the path. Behind him he heard Effie'scall, and at the child's voice he saw Sophy turn her headwith the alertness of one who is obscurely on the watch.
　　The look was so fugitive that he could not have said whereinit differed from her normal professional air of having herpupil on her mind.
　　Effie sprang past them, and Darrow took up the girl'schallenge.
　　"What you suggest about Mrs. Leath is hardly worthanswering. As to my reasons for wanting to help you, a gooddeal depends on the words one uses to define ratherindefinite things. It's true enough that I want to helpyou; but the wish isn't due to...to any past kindness onyour part, but simply to my own interest in you. Why notput it that our friendship gives me the right to intervenefor what I believe to be your benefit?"She took a few hesitating steps and then paused again.
　　Darrow noticed that she had grown pale and that there wererings of shade about her eyes.
　　"You've known Mrs. Leath a long time?" she asked himsuddenly.
　　He paused with a sense of approaching peril. "A long time--yes.""She told me you were friends--great friends""Yes," he admitted, "we're great friends.""Then you might naturally feel yourself justified in tellingher that you don't think I'm the right person for Effie."He uttered a sound of protest, but she disregarded it. "Idon't say you'd LIKE to do it. You wouldn't: you'd hateit. And the natural alternative would be to try to persuademe that I'd be better off somewhere else than here. Butsupposing that failed, and you saw I was determined to stay?
　　THEN you might think it your duty to tell Mrs. Leath."She laid the case before him with a cold lucidity. "Ishould, in your place, I believe," she ended with a littlelaugh.
　　"I shouldn't feel justified in telling her, behind yourback, if I thought you unsuited for the place; but I shouldcertainly feel justified," he rejoined after a pause, "intelling YOU if I thought the place unsuited to you.""And that's what you're trying to tell me now?""Yes; but not for the reasons you imagine.""What, then, are your reasons, if you please?""I've already implied them in advising you not to give upall idea of the theatre. You're too various, too gifted,too personal, to tie yourself down, at your age, to thedismal drudgery of teaching.""And is THAT what you've told Mrs. Leath?"She rushed the question out at him as if she expected totrip him up over it. He was moved by the simplicity of thestratagem.
　　"I've told her exactly nothing," he replied.
　　"And what--exactly--do you mean by 'nothing'? You and shewere talking about me when I came into her sitting-roomyesterday."Darrow felt his blood rise at the thrust.
　　"I've told her, simply, that I'd seen you once or twice atMrs. Murrett's.""And not that you've ever seen me since?""And not that I've ever seen you since...""And she believes you--she completely believes you?"He uttered a protesting exclamation, and his flush reflecteditself in the girl's cheek.
　　"Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn't mean to ask you that." Shehalted, and again cast a rapid glance behind and ahead ofher. Then she held out her hand. "Well, then, thank you--and let me relieve your fears. I sha'n't be Effie'sgoverness much longer."At the announcement, Darrow tried to merge his look ofrelief into the expression of friendly interest with whichhe grasped her hand. "You really do agree with me, then?
　　And you'll give me a chance to talk things over with you?"She shook her head with a faint smile. "I'm not thinking ofthe stage. I've had another offer: that's all."The relief was hardly less great. After all, his personalresponsibility ceased with her departure from Givre.
　　"You'll tell me about that, then--won't you?"Her smile flickered up. "Oh, you'll hear about it soon...Imust catch Effie now and drag her back to the blackboard."She walked on for a few yards, and then paused again andconfronted him. "I've been odious to you--and not quitehonest," she broke out suddenly.
　　"Not quite honest?" he repeated, caught in a fresh wave ofwonder.
　　"I mean, in seeming not to trust you. It's come over meagain as we talked that, at heart, I've always KNOWN Icould..."Her colour rose in a bright wave, and her eyes clung to hisfor a swift instant of reminder and appeal. For the samespace of time the past surged up in him confusedly; then aveil dropped between them.
　　"Here's Effie now!" she exclaimed.
　　He turned and saw the little girl trotting back to them, herhand in Owen Leath's.
　　Even through the stir of his subsiding excitement Darrow wasat once aware of the change effected by the young man'sapproach. For a moment Sophy Viner's cheeks burned redder;then they faded to the paleness of white petals. She lost,however, nothing of the bright bravery which it was her wayto turn on the unexpected. Perhaps no one less familiarwith her face than Darrow would have discerned the tensionof the smile she transferred from himself to Owen Leath, orhave remarked that her eyes had hardened from misty grey toa shining darkness. But her observer was less struck bythis than by the corresponding change in Owen Leath. Thelatter, when he came in sight, had been laughing and talkingunconcernedly with Effie; but as his eye fell on Miss Vinerhis expression altered as suddenly as hers.
　　The change, for Darrow, was less definable; but, perhaps forthat reason, it struck him as more sharply significant.
　　Only--just what did it signify? Owen, like Sophy Viner, hadthe kind of face which seems less the stage on whichemotions move than the very stuff they work in. In momentsof excitement his odd irregular features seemed to growfluid, to unmake and remake themselves like the shadows ofclouds on a stream. Darrow, through the rapid flight of theshadows, could not seize on any specific indication offeeling: he merely perceived that the young man wasunaccountably surprised at finding him with Miss Viner, andthat the extent of his surprise might cover all manner ofimplications.
　　Darrow's first idea was that Owen, if he suspected that theconversation was not the result of an accidental encounter,might wonder at his step-mother's suitor being engaged, atsuch an hour, in private talk with her little girl'sgoverness. The thought was so disturbing that, as the threeturned back to the house, he was on the point of saying toOwen: "I came out to look for your mother." But, in thecontingency he feared, even so simple a phrase might seemlike an awkward attempt at explanation; and he walked on insilence at Miss Viner's side. Presently he was struck bythe fact that Owen Leath and the girl were silent also; andthis gave a new turn to his thoughts. Silence may be asvariously shaded as speech; and that which enfolded Darrowand his two companions seemed to his watchful perceptions tobe quivering with cross-threads of communication. At firsthe was aware only of those that centred in his own troubledconsciousness; then it occurred to him that an equalactivity of intercourse was going on outside of it.
　　Something was in fact passing mutely and rapidly betweenyoung Leath and Sophy Viner; but what it was, and whither ittended, Darrow, when they reached the house, was but justbeginning to divine...
Chapter 18
    Anna Leath, from the terrace, watched the return of the little group.
　　She looked down on them, as they advanced across the garden,from the serene height of her unassailable happiness. Therethey were, coming toward her in the mild morning light, herchild, her step-son, her promised husband: the three beingswho filled her life. She smiled a little at the happypicture they presented, Effie's gambols encircling it in amoving frame within which the two men came slowly forward inthe silence of friendly understanding. It seemed part ofthe deep intimacy of the scene that they should not betalking to each other, and it did not till afterward strikeher as odd that neither of them apparently felt it necessaryto address a word to Sophy Viner.
　　Anna herself, at the moment, was floating in the mid-currentof felicity, on a tide so bright and buoyant that she seemedto be one with its warm waves. The first rush of bliss hadstunned and dazzled her; but now that, each morning, shewoke to the calm certainty of its recurrence, she wasgrowing used to the sense of security it gave.
　　"I feel as if I could trust my happiness to carry me; as ifit had grown out of me like wings." So she phrased it toDarrow, as, later in the morning, they paced the garden-paths together. His answering look gave her the sameassurance of safety. The evening before he had seemedpreoccupied, and the shadow of his mood had faintlyencroached on the great golden orb of their blessedness; butnow it was uneclipsed again, and hung above them high andbright as the sun at noon.
　　Upstairs in her sitting-room, that afternoon, she wasthinking of these things. The morning mists had turned torain, compelling the postponement of an excursion in whichthe whole party were to have joined. Effie, with hergoverness, had been despatched in the motor to do someshopping at Francheuil; and Anna had promised Darrow to joinhim, later in the afternoon, for a quick walk in the rain.
　　He had gone to his room after luncheon to get some belatedletters off his conscience; and when he had left her she hadcontinued to sit in the same place, her hands crossed on herknees, her head slightly bent, in an attitude of broodingretrospection. As she looked back at her past life, itseemed to her to have consisted of one ceaseless effort topack into each hour enough to fill out its slack folds; butnow each moment was like a miser's bag stretched to burstingwith pure gold.
　　She was roused by the sound of Owen's step in the galleryoutside her room. It paused at her door and in answer tohis knock she called out "Come in!"As the door closed behind him she was struck by his look ofpale excitement, and an impulse of compunction made her say:
　　"You've come to ask me why I haven't spoken to yourgrandmother!"He sent about him a glance vaguely reminding her of thestrange look with which Sophy Viner had swept the room thenight before; then his brilliant eyes came back to her.
　　"I've spoken to her myself," he said.
　　Anna started up, incredulous.
　　"You've spoken to her? When?""Just now. I left her to come here."Anna's first feeling was one of annoyance. There was reallysomething comically incongruous in this boyish surrender toimpulse on the part of a young man so eager to assume theresponsibilities of life. She looked at him with a faintlyveiled amusement.
　　"You asked me to help you and I promised you I would. It washardly worth while to work out such an elaborate plan ofaction if you intended to take the matter out of my handswithout telling me.""Oh, don't take that tone with me!" he broke out, almostangrily.
　　"That tone? What tone?" She stared at his quivering face.
　　"I might," she pursued, still half-laughing, "more properlymake that request of YOU!"Owen reddened and his vehemence suddenly subsided.
　　"I meant that I HAD to speak--that's all. You don'tgive me a chance to explain..."She looked at him gently, wondering a little at her ownimpatience.
　　"Owen! Don't I always want to give you every chance? It'sbecause I DO that I wanted to talk to your grandmotherfirst--that I was waiting and watching for the rightmoment...""The right moment? So was I. That's why I've spoken." Hisvoice rose again and took the sharp edge it had in momentsof high pressure.
　　His step-mother turned away and seated herself in her sofa-corner. "Oh, my dear, it's not a privilege to quarrel over!
　　You've taken a load off my shoulders. Sit down and tell meall about it."He stood before her, irresolute. "I can't sit down," hesaid.
　　"Walk about, then. Only tell me: I'm impatient."His immediate response was to throw himself into thearmchair at her side, where he lounged for a moment withoutspeaking, his legs stretched out, his arms locked behind histhrown-back head. Anna, her eyes on his face, waitedquietly for him to speak.
　　"Well--of course it was just what one expected.""She takes it so badly, you mean?""All the heavy batteries were brought up: my father, Givre,Monsieur de Chantelle, the throne and the altar. Even mypoor mother was dragged out of oblivion and armed withimaginary protests."Anna sighed out her sympathy. "Well--you were prepared forall that?""I thought I was, till I began to hear her say it. Then itsounded so incredibly silly that I told her so.""Oh, Owen--Owen!""Yes: I know. I was a fool; but I couldn't help it.""And you've mortally offended her, I suppose? That's exactlywhat I wanted to prevent." She laid a hand on his shoulder.
　　"You tiresome boy, not to wait and let me speak for you!"He moved slightly away, so that her hand slipped from itsplace. "You don't understand," he said, frowning.
　　"I don't see how I can, till you explain. If you thoughtthe time had come to tell your grandmother, why not haveasked me to do it? I had my reasons for waiting; but ifyou'd told me to speak I should have done so, naturally."He evaded her appeal by a sudden turn. "What WERE yourreasons for waiting?"Anna did not immediately answer. Her step-son's eyes wereon her face, and under his gaze she felt a faintdisquietude.
　　"I was feeling my way...I wanted to be absolutely sure...""Absolutely sure of what?"She delayed again for a just perceptible instant. "Why,simply of OUR side of the case.""But you told me you were, the other day, when we talked itover before they came back from Ouchy.""Oh, my dear--if you think that, in such a complicatedmatter, every day, every hour, doesn't more or less modifyone's surest sureness!""That's just what I'm driving at. I want to know what hasmodified yours."She made a slight gesture of impatience. "What does itmatter, now the thing's done? I don't know that I could giveany clear reason..."He got to his feet and stood looking down on her with atormented brow. "But it's absolutely necessary that youshould."At his tone her impatience flared up. "It's not necessarythat I should give you any explanation whatever, sinceyou've taken the matter out of my hands. All I can say isthat I was trying to help you: that no other thought everentered my mind." She paused a moment and then added: "Ifyou doubted it, you were right to do what you've done.""Oh, I never doubted YOU!" he retorted, with a fugitivestress on the pronoun. His face had cleared to its old lookof trust. "Don't be offended if I've seemed to," he wenton. "I can't quite explain myself, either...it's all a kindof tangle, isn't it? That's why I thought I'd better speakat once; or rather why I didn't think at all, but justsuddenly blurted the thing out----"Anna gave him back his look of conciliation. "Well, the howand why don't much matter now. The point is how to dealwith your grandmother. You've not told me what she means todo.""Oh, she means to send for Adelaide Painter."The name drew a faint note of mirth from him and relaxedboth their faces to a smile.
　　"Perhaps," Anna added, "it's really the best thing for usall."Owen shrugged his shoulders. "It's too preposterous andhumiliating. Dragging that woman into our secrets----!""This could hardly be a secret much longer."He had moved to the hearth, where he stood pushing about thesmall ornaments on the mantel-shelf; but at her answer heturned back to her.
　　"You haven't, of course, spoken of it to any one?""No; but I intend to now."She paused for his reply, and as it did not come shecontinued: "If Adelaide Painter's to be told there's nopossible reason why I shouldn't tell Mr. Darrow."Owen abruptly set down the little statuette between hisfingers. "None whatever: I want every one to know."She smiled a little at his over-emphasis, and was about tomeet it with a word of banter when he continued, facing her:
　　"You haven't, as yet, said a word to him?""I've told him nothing, except what the discussion of ourown plans--his and mine--obliged me to: that you werethinking of marrying, and that I wasn't willing to leaveFrance till I'd done what I could to see you through."At her first words the colour had rushed to his forehead;but as she continued she saw his face compose itself and hisblood subside.
　　"You're a brick, my dear!" he exclaimed.
　　"You had my word, you know.""Yes; yes--I know." His face had clouded again. "And that'sall--positively all--you've ever said to him?""Positively all. But why do you ask?"He had a moment's embarrassed hesitation. "It wasunderstood, wasn't it, that my grandmother was to be thefirst to know?""Well--and so she has been, hasn't she, since you've toldher?"He turned back to his restless shifting of the knick-knacks.
　　"And you're sure that nothing you've said to Darrow couldpossibly have given him a hint----?""Nothing I've said to him--certainly."He swung about on her. "Why do you put it in that way?""In what way?""Why--as if you thought some one else might have spoken...""Some one else? Who else?" She rose to her feet. "What onearth, my dear boy, can you be driving at?""I'm trying to find out whether you think he knows anythingdefinite.""Why should I think so? Do YOU?""I don't know. I want to find out."She laughed at his obstinate insistence. "To test myveracity, I suppose?" At the sound of a step in the galleryshe added: "Here he is--you can ask him yourself."She met Darrow's knock with an invitation to enter, and hecame into the room and paused between herself and Owen. Shewas struck, as he stood there, by the contrast between hishappy careless good-looks and her step-son's frowningagitation.
　　Darrow met her eyes with a smile. "Am I too soon? Or is ourwalk given up?""No; I was just going to get ready." She continued to lingerbetween the two, looking slowly from one to the other. "Butthere's something we want to tell you first: Owen is engagedto Miss Viner."The sense of an indefinable interrogation in Owen's mindmade her, as she spoke, fix her eyes steadily on Darrow.
　　He had paused just opposite the window, so that, even in therainy afternoon light, his face was clearly open to herscrutiny. For a second, immense surprise was alone visibleon it: so visible that she half turned to her step-son, witha faint smile for his refuted suspicions. Why, shewondered, should Owen have thought that Darrow had alreadyguessed his secret, and what, after all, could be sodisturbing to him in this not improbable contingency? At anyrate, his doubt must have been dispelled: there was nothingfeigned about Darrow's astonishment. When her eyes turnedback to him he was already crossing to Owen withoutstretched hand, and she had, through an unaccountablefaint flutter of misgiving, a mere confused sense of theirexchanging the customary phrases. Her next perception wasof Owen's tranquillized look, and of his smiling return ofDarrow's congratulatory grasp. She had the eerie feeling ofhaving been overswept by a shadow which there had been nocloud to cast...
　　A moment later Owen had left the room and she and Darrowwere alone. He had turned away to the window and stoodstaring out into the down-pour.
　　"You're surprised at Owen's news?" she asked.
　　"Yes: I am surprised," he answered.
　　"You hadn't thought of its being Miss Viner?""Why should I have thought of Miss Viner?""You see now why I wanted so much to find out what you knewabout her." He made no comment, and she pursued: "Now thatyou DO know it's she, if there's anything----"He moved back into the room and went up to her. His facewas serious, with a slight shade of annoyance. "What onearth should there be? As I told you, I've never in my lifeheard any one say two words about Miss Viner."Anna made no answer and they continued to face each otherwithout moving. For the moment she had ceased to thinkabout Sophy Viner and Owen: the only thought in her mind wasthat Darrow was alone with her, close to her, and that, forthe first time, their hands and lips had not met.
　　He glanced back doubtfully at the window. "It's pouring.
　　Perhaps you'd rather not go out?"She hesitated, as if waiting for him to urge her. "Isuppose I'd better not. I ought to go at once to my mother-in-law--Owen's just been telling her," she said.
　　"Ah." Darrow hazarded a smile. "That accounts for myhaving, on my way up, heard some one telephoning for MissPainter!"At the allusion they laughed together, vaguely, and Annamoved toward the door. He held it open for her and followedher out.
Chapter 19
    He left her at the door of Madame de Chantelle's sitting-room, and plunged out alone into the rain.
　　The wind flung about the stripped tree-tops of the avenueand dashed the stinging streams into his face. He walked tothe gate and then turned into the high-road and strode alongin the open, buffeted by slanting gusts. The evenly ridgedfields were a blurred waste of mud, and the russet covertswhich he and Owen had shot through the day before shivereddesolately against a driving sky.
　　Darrow walked on and on, indifferent to the direction he wastaking. His thoughts were tossing like the tree-tops.
　　Anna's announcement had not come to him as a completesurprise: that morning, as he strolled back to the housewith Owen Leath and Miss Viner, he had had a momentaryintuition of the truth. But it had been no more than anintuition, the merest faint cloud-puff of surmise; and nowit was an attested fact, darkening over the whole sky.
　　In respect of his own attitude, he saw at once that thediscovery made no appreciable change. If he had been boundto silence before, he was no less bound to it now; the onlydifference lay in the fact that what he had just learned hadrendered his bondage more intolerable. Hitherto he had feltfor Sophy Viner's defenseless state a sympathy profoundlytinged with compunction. But now he was half-conscious ofan obscure indignation against her. Superior as he hadfancied himself to ready-made judgments, he was aware ofcherishing the common doubt as to the disinterestedness ofthe woman who tries to rise above her past. No wonder shehad been sick with fear on meeting him! It was in his powerto do her more harm than he had dreamed...
　　Assuredly he did not want to harm her; but he diddesperately want to prevent her marrying Owen Leath. Hetried to get away from the feeling, to isolate andexteriorize it sufficiently to see what motives it was madeof; but it remained a mere blind motion of his blood, theinstinctive recoil from the thing that no amount of arguingcan make "straight." His tramp, prolonged as it was, carriedhim no nearer to enlightenment; and after trudging throughtwo or three sallow mud-stained villages he turned about andwearily made his way back to Givre. As he walked up theblack avenue, making for the lights that twinkled throughits pitching branches, he had a sudden realisation of hisutter helplessness. He might think and combine as he would;but there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that he coulddo...
　　He dropped his wet coat in the vestibule and began to mountthe stairs to his room. But on the landing he was overtakenby a sober-faced maid who, in tones discreetly lowered,begged him to be so kind as to step, for a moment, into theMarquise's sitting-room. Somewhat disconcerted by thesummons, he followed its bearer to the door at which, acouple of hours earlier, he had taken leave of Mrs. Leath.
　　It opened to admit him to a large lamp-lit room which heimmediately perceived to be empty; and the fact gave himtime to note, even through his disturbance of mind, theinteresting degree to which Madame de Chantelle's apartment"dated" and completed her. Its looped and corded curtains,its purple satin upholstery, the Sevres jardinieres, therosewood fire-screen, the little velvet tables edged withlace and crowded with silver knick-knacks and simperingminiatures, reconstituted an almost perfect setting for theblonde beauty of the 'sixties. Darrow wondered that FraserLeath's filial respect should have prevailed over hisaesthetic scruples to the extent of permitting such ananachronism among the eighteenth century graces of Givre;but a moment's reflection made it clear that, to its lateowner, the attitude would have seemed exactly in thetraditions of the place.
　　Madame de Chantelle's emergence from an inner room snatchedDarrow from these irrelevant musings. She was alreadybeaded and bugled for the evening, and, save for a slightpinkness of the eye-lids, her elaborate appearance revealedno mark of agitation; but Darrow noticed that, inrecognition of the solemnity of the occasion, she pinched alace handkerchief between her thumb and forefinger.
　　She plunged at once into the centre of the difficulty,appealing to him, in the name of all the Everards, todescend there with her to the rescue of her darling. Shewasn't, she was sure, addressing herself in vain to onewhose person, whose "tone," whose traditions so brilliantlydeclared his indebtedness to the principles she besought himto defend. Her own reception of Darrow, the confidence shehad at once accorded him, must have shown him that she hadinstinctively felt their unanimity of sentiment on thesefundamental questions. She had in fact recognized in himthe one person whom, without pain to her maternal piety, shecould welcome as her son's successor; and it was almost asto Owen's father that she now appealed to Darrow to aid inrescuing the wretched boy.
　　"Don't think, please, that I'm casting the least reflectionon Anna, or showing any want of sympathy for her, when I saythat I consider her partly responsible for what's happened.
　　Anna is 'modern'--I believe that's what it's called when youread unsettling books and admire hideous pictures. Indeed,"Madame de Chantelle continued, leaning confidentiallyforward, "I myself have always more or less lived in thatatmosphere: my son, you know, was very revolutionary. Onlyhe didn't, of course, apply his ideas: they were purelyintellectual. That's what dear Anna has always failed tounderstand. And I'm afraid she's created the same kind ofconfusion in Owen's mind--led him to mix up things you readabout with things you do...You know, of course, that shesides with him in this wretched business?"Developing at length upon this theme, she finally narroweddown to the point of Darrow's intervention. "My grandson,Mr. Darrow, calls me illogical and uncharitable because myfeelings toward Miss Viner have changed since I've heardthis news. Well! You've known her, it appears, for someyears: Anna tells me you used to see her when she was acompanion, or secretary or something, to a dreadfully vulgarMrs. Murrett. And I ask you as a friend, I ask you as oneof US, to tell me if you think a girl who has had toknock about the world in that kind of position, and at theorders of all kinds of people, is fitted to be Owen's wifeI'm not implying anything against her! I LIKED the girl,Mr. Darrow...But what's that got to do with it? I don't wanther to marry my grandson. If I'd been looking for a wifefor Owen, I shouldn't have applied to the Farlows to find meone. That's what Anna won't understand; and what you musthelp me to make her see."Darrow, to this appeal, could oppose only the repeatedassurance of his inability to interfere. He tried to makeMadame de Chantelle see that the very position he hoped totake in the household made his intervention the morehazardous. He brought up the usual arguments, and soundedthe expected note of sympathy; but Madame de Chantelle'salarm had dispelled her habitual imprecision, and, thoughshe had not many reasons to advance, her argument clung toits point like a frightened sharp-clawed animal.
　　"Well, then," she summed up, in response to his repeatedassertions that he saw no way of helping her, "you can, atleast, even if you won't say a word to the others, tell mefrankly and fairly--and quite between ourselves--yourpersonal opinion of Miss Viner, since you've known her somuch longer than we have."He protested that, if he had known her longer, he had knownher much less well, and that he had already, on this point,convinced Anna of his inability to pronounce an opinion.
　　Madame de Chantelle drew a deep sigh of intelligence. "Youropinion of Mrs. Murrett is enough! I don't suppose youpretend to conceal THAT? And heaven knows what otherunspeakable people she's been mixed up with. The onlyfriends she can produce are called Hoke...Don't try toreason with me, Mr. Darrow. There are feelings that godeeper than facts...And I KNOW she thought of studyingfor the stage..." Madame de Chantelle raised the corner ofher lace handkerchief to her eyes. "I'm old-fashioned--likemy furniture," she murmured. "And I thought I could counton you, Mr. Darrow..."When Darrow, that night, regained his room, he reflectedwith a flash of irony that each time he entered it hebrought a fresh troop of perplexities to trouble its sereneseclusion. Since the day after his arrival, only forty-eight hours before, when he had set his window open to thenight, and his hopes had seemed as many as its stars, eachevening had brought its new problem and its reneweddistress. But nothing, as yet, had approached the blankmisery of mind with which he now set himself to face thefresh questions confronting him.
　　Sophy Viner had not shown herself at dinner, so that he hadhad no glimpse of her in her new character, and no means ofdivining the real nature of the tie between herself and OwenLeath. One thing, however, was clear: whatever her realfeelings were, and however much or little she had at stake,if she had made up her mind to marry Owen she had more thanenough skill and tenacity to defeat any arts that poorMadame de Chantelle could oppose to her.
　　Darrow himself was in fact the only person who mightpossibly turn her from her purpose: Madame de Chantelle, athaphazard, had hit on the surest means of saving Owen--if toprevent his marriage were to save him! Darrow, on thispoint, did not pretend to any fixed opinion; one feelingalone was clear and insistent in him: he did not mean, if hecould help it, to let the marriage take place.
　　How he was to prevent it he did not know: to his tormentedimagination every issue seemed closed. For a fantasticinstant he was moved to follow Madame de Chantelle'ssuggestion and urge Anna to withdraw her approval. If hisreticence, his efforts to avoid the subject, had not escapedher, she had doubtless set them down to the fact of hisknowing more, and thinking less, of Sophy Viner than he hadbeen willing to admit; and he might take advantage of thisto turn her mind gradually from the project. Yet how do sowithout betraying his insincerity? If he had had nothing tohide he could easily have said: "It's one thing to knownothing against the girl, it's another to pretend that Ithink her a good match for Owen." But could he say even somuch without betraying more? It was not Anna's questions, orhis answers to them, that he feared, but what might cryaloud in the intervals between them. He understood now thatever since Sophy Viner's arrival at Givre he had felt inAnna the lurking sense of something unexpressed, and perhapsinexpressible, between the girl and himself...When at lasthe fell asleep he had fatalistically committed his next stepto the chances of the morrow.
　　The first that offered itself was an encounter with Mrs.
　　Leath as he descended the stairs the next morning. She hadcome down already hatted and shod for a dash to the parklodge, where one of the gatekeeper's children had had anaccident. In her compact dark dress she looked more thanusually straight and slim, and her face wore the pale glowit took on at any call on her energy: a kind of warriorbrightness that made her small head, with its strong chinand close-bound hair, like that of an amazon in a frieze.
　　It was their first moment alone since she had left him, theafternoon before, at her mother-in-law's door; and after afew words about the injured child their talk inevitablyreverted to Owen.
　　Anna spoke with a smile of her "scene" with Madame deChantelle, who belonged, poor dear, to a generation when"scenes" (in the ladylike and lachrymal sense of the term)were the tribute which sensibility was expected to pay tothe unusual. Their conversation had been, in every detail,so exactly what Anna had foreseen that it had clearly notmade much impression on her; but she was eager to know theresult of Darrow's encounter with her mother-in-law.
　　"She told me she'd sent for you: she always 'sends for'
　　people in emergencies. That again, I suppose, is del'epoque. And failing Adelaide Painter, who can't get heretill this afternoon, there was no one but poor you to turnto."She put it all lightly, with a lightness that seemed to histight-strung nerves slightly, undefinably over-done. But hewas so aware of his own tension that he wondered, the nextmoment, whether anything would ever again seem to him quiteusual and insignificant and in the common order of things.
　　As they hastened on through the drizzle in which the stormof the night was weeping itself out, Anna drew close underhis umbrella, and at the pressure of her arm against his herecalled his walk up the Dover pier with Sophy Viner. Thememory gave him a startled vision of the inevitableoccasions of contact, confidence, familiarity, which hisfuture relationship to the girl would entail, and thecountless chances of betrayal that every one of theminvolved.
　　"Do tell me just what you said," he heard Anna pleading; andwith sudden resolution he affirmed: "I quite understand yourmother-in-law's feeling as she does."The words, when uttered, seemed a good deal less significantthan they had sounded to his inner ear; and Anna repliedwithout surprise: "Of course. It's inevitable that sheshould. But we shall bring her round in time." Under thedripping dome she raised her face to his. "Don't youremember what you said the day before yesterday? 'Togetherwe can't fail to pull it off for him!' I've told Owen that,so you're pledged and there's no going back."The day before yesterday! Was it possible that, no longerago, life had seemed a sufficiently simple business for asane man to hazard such assurances?
　　"Anna," he questioned her abruptly, "why are you so anxiousfor this marriage?"She stopped short to face him. "Why? But surely I'veexplained to you--or rather I've hardly had to, you seemedso in sympathy with my reasons!""I didn't know, then, who it was that Owen wanted to marry."The words were out with a spring and he felt a clearer airin his brain. But her logic hemmed him in.
　　"You knew yesterday; and you assured me then that you hadn'ta word to say----""Against Miss Viner?" The name, once uttered, sounded on andon in his ears. "Of course not. But that doesn'tnecessarily imply that I think her a good match for Owen."Anna made no immediate answer. When she spoke it was toquestion: "Why don't you think her a good match for Owen?""Well--Madame de Chantelle's reasons seem to me not quite asnegligible as you think.""You mean the fact that she's been Mrs. Murrett's secretary,and that the people who employed her before were calledHoke? For, as far as Owen and I can make out, these are thegravest charges against her.""Still, one can understand that the match is not what Madamede Chantelle had dreamed of.""Oh, perfectly--if that's all you mean."The lodge was in sight, and she hastened her step. Hestrode on beside her in silence, but at the gate she checkedhim with the question: "Is it really all you mean?""Of course," he heard himself declare.
　　"Oh, then I think I shall convince you--even if I can't,like Madame de Chantelle, summon all the Everards to myaid!" She lifted to him the look of happy laughter thatsometimes brushed her with a gleam of spring.
　　Darrow watched her hasten along the path between thedripping chrysanthemums and enter the lodge. After she hadgone in he paced up and down outside in the drizzle, waitingto learn if she had any message to send back to the house;and after the lapse of a few minutes she came out again.
　　The child, she said, was badly, though not dangerously,hurt, and the village doctor, who was already on hand, hadasked that the surgeon, already summoned from Francheuil,should be told to bring with him certain needful appliances.
　　Owen had started by motor to fetch the surgeon, but therewas still time to communicate with the latter by telephone.
　　The doctor furthermore begged for an immediate provision ofsuch bandages and disinfectants as Givre itself couldfurnish, and Anna bade Darrow address himself to Miss Viner,who would know where to find the necessary things, and woulddirect one of the servants to bicycle with them to thelodge.
　　Darrow, as he hurried off on this errand, had at onceperceived the opportunity it offered of a word with SophyViner. What that word was to be he did not know; but now,if ever, was the moment to make it urgent and conclusive.
　　It was unlikely that he would again have such a chance ofunobserved talk with her.
　　He had supposed he should find her with her pupil in theschool-room; but he learned from a servant that Effie hadgone to Francheuil with her step-brother, and that MissViner was still in her room. Darrow sent her word that hewas the bearer of a message from the lodge, and a momentlater he heard her coming down the stairs.
Chapter 20
    For a second, as she approached him, the quick tremor of herglance showed her all intent on the same thought as himself.
　　He transmitted his instructions with mechanical precision,and she answered in the same tone, repeating his words withthe intensity of attention of a child not quite sure ofunderstanding. Then she disappeared up the stairs.
　　Darrow lingered on in the hall, not knowing if she meant toreturn, yet inwardly sure she would. At length he saw hercoming down in her hat and jacket. The rain still streakedthe window panes, and, in order to say something, he said:
　　"You're not going to the lodge yourself?""I've sent one of the men ahead with the things; but Ithought Mrs. Leath might need me.""She didn't ask for you," he returned, wondering how hecould detain her; but she answered decidedly: "I'd bettergo."He held open the door, picked up his umbrella and followedher out. As they went down the steps she glanced back athim. "You've forgotten your mackintosh.""I sha'n't need it."She had no umbrella, and he opened his and held it out toher. She rejected it with a murmur of thanks and walked onthrough the thin drizzle, and he kept the umbrella over hisown head, without offering to shelter her.
　　Rapidly and in silence they crossed the court and began towalk down the avenue. They had traversed a third of itslength before Darrow said abruptly: "Wouldn't it have beenfairer, when we talked together yesterday, to tell me whatI've just heard from Mrs. Leath?""Fairer----?" She stopped short with a startled look.
　　"If I'd known that your future was already settled I shouldhave spared you my gratuitous suggestions."She walked on, more slowly, for a yard or two. "I couldn'tspeak yesterday. I meant to have told you today.""Oh, I'm not reproaching you for your lack of confidence.
　　Only, if you HAD told me, I should have been more sureof your really meaning what you said to me yesterday."She did not ask him to what he referred, and he saw that herparting words to him lived as vividly in her memory as inhis.
　　"Is it so important that you should be sure?" she finallyquestioned.
　　"Not to you, naturally," he returned with involuntaryasperity. It was incredible, yet it was a fact, that forthe moment his immediate purpose in seeking to speak to herwas lost under a rush of resentment at counting for solittle in her fate. Of what stuff, then, was his feelingfor her made? A few hours earlier she had touched histhoughts as little as his senses; but now he felt oldsleeping instincts stir in him...
　　A rush of rain dashed against his face, and, catchingSophy's hat, strained it back from her loosened hair. Sheput her hands to her head with a familiar gesture...He camecloser and held his umbrella over her...
　　At the lodge he waited while she went in. The raincontinued to stream down on him and he shivered in thedampness and stamped his feet on the flags. It seemed tohim that a long time elapsed before the door opened and shereappeared. He glanced into the house for a glimpse ofAnna, but obtained none; yet the mere sense of her nearnesshad completely altered his mood.
　　The child, Sophy told him, was doing well; but Mrs. Leathhad decided to wait till the surgeon came. Darrow, as theyturned away, looked through the gates, and saw the doctor'sold-fashioned carriage by the roadside.
　　"Let me tell the doctor's boy to drive you back," hesuggested; but Sophy answered: "No; I'll walk," and he movedon toward the house at her side. She expressed no surpriseat his not remaining at the lodge, and again they walked onin silence through the rain. She had accepted the shelterof his umbrella, but she kept herself at such a carefullymeasured distance that even the slight swaying movementsproduced by their quick pace did not once bring her arm intouch with his; and, noticing this, he perceived that everydrop of her blood must be alive to his nearness.
　　"What I meant just now," he began, "was that you ought tohave been sure of my good wishes."She seemed to weigh the words. "Sure enough for what?""To trust me a little farther than you did.""I've told you that yesterday I wasn't free to speak.""Well, since you are now, may I say a word to you?"She paused perceptibly, and when she spoke it was in so lowa tone that he had to bend his head to catch her answer. "Ican't think what you can have to say.""It's not easy to say here, at any rate. And indoors Isha'n't know where to say it." He glanced about him in therain. "Let's walk over to the spring-house for a minute."To the right of the drive, under a clump of trees, a littlestucco pavilion crowned by a balustrade rose on arches ofmouldering brick over a flight of steps that led down to aspring. Other steps curved up to a door above. Darrowmounted these, and opening the door entered a small circularroom hung with loosened strips of painted paper whereonspectrally faded Mandarins executed elongated gestures.
　　Some black and gold chairs with straw seats and an unsteadytable of cracked lacquer stood on the floor of red-glazedtile.
　　Sophy had followed him without comment. He closed the doorafter her, and she stood motionless, as though waiting forhim to speak.
　　"Now we can talk quietly," he said, looking at her with asmile into which he tried to put an intention of thefrankest friendliness.
　　She merely repeated: "I can't think what you can have tosay."Her voice had lost the note of half-wistful confidence onwhich their talk of the previous day had closed, and shelooked at him with a kind of pale hostility. Her tone madeit evident that his task would be difficult, but it did notshake his resolve to go on. He sat down, and mechanicallyshe followed his example. The table was between them andshe rested her arms on its cracked edge and her chin on herinterlocked hands. He looked at her and she gave him backhis look.
　　"Have you nothing to say to ME?" he asked at length.
　　A faint smile lifted, in the remembered way, the left cornerof her narrowed lips.
　　"About my marriage?""About your marriage."She continued to consider him between half-drawn lids. "Whatcan I say that Mrs. Leath has not already told you?""Mrs. Leath has told me nothing whatever but the fact--andher pleasure in it.""Well; aren't those the two essential points?""The essential points to YOU? I should have thought----""Oh, to YOU, I meant," she put in keenly.
　　He flushed at the retort, but steadied himself and rejoined:
　　"The essential point to me is, of course, that you should bedoing what's really best for you."She sat silent, with lowered lashes. At length shestretched out her arm and took up from the table a littlethreadbare Chinese hand-screen. She turned its ebony stemonce or twice between her fingers, and as she did so Darrowwas whimsically struck by the way in which their evanescentslight romance was symbolized by the fading lines on thefrail silk.
　　"Do you think my engagement to Mr. Leath not really best forme?" she asked at length.
　　Darrow, before answering, waited long enough to get hiswords into the tersest shape--not without a sense, as he didso, of his likeness to the surgeon deliberately poising hislancet for a clean incision. "I'm not sure," he replied,"of its being the best thing for either of you."She took the stroke steadily, but a faint red swept her facelike the reflection of a blush. She continued to keep herlowered eyes on the screen.
　　"From whose point of view do you speak?""Naturally, that of the persons most concerned.""From Owen's, then, of course? You don't think me a goodmatch for him?""From yours, first of all. I don't think him a good matchfor you."He brought the answer out abruptly, his eyes on her face.
　　It had grown extremely pale, but as the meaning of his wordsshaped itself in her mind he saw a curious inner light dawnthrough her set look. She lifted her lids just far enoughfor a veiled glance at him, and a smile slipped through themto her trembling lips. For a moment the change merelybewildered him; then it pulled him up with a sharp jerk ofapprehension.
　　"I don't think him a good match for you," he stammered,groping for the lost thread of his words.
　　She threw a vague look about the chilly rain-dimmed room.
　　"And you've brought me here to tell me why?"The question roused him to the sense that their minutes werenumbered, and that if he did not immediately get to hispoint there might be no other chance of making it.
　　"My chief reason is that I believe he's too young andinexperienced to give you the kind of support you need."At his words her face changed again, freezing to a tragiccoldness. She stared straight ahead of her, perceptiblystruggling with the tremor of her muscles; and when she hadcontrolled it she flung out a pale-lipped pleasantry. "Butyou see I've always had to support myself!""He's a boy," Darrow pushed on, "a charming, wonderful boy;but with no more notion than a boy how to deal with theinevitable daily problems...the trivial stupid unimportantthings that life is chiefly made up of.""I'll deal with them for him," she rejoined.
　　"They'll be more than ordinarily difficult."She shot a challenging glance at him. "You must have somespecial reason for saying so.""Only my clear perception of the facts.""What facts do you mean?"Darrow hesitated. "You must know better than I," hereturned at length, "that the way won't be made easy toyou.""Mrs. Leath, at any rate, has made it so.""Madame de Chantelle will not.""How do YOU know that?" she flung back.
　　He paused again, not sure how far it was prudent to revealhimself in the confidence of the household. Then, to avoidinvolving Anna, he answered: "Madame de Chantelle sent forme yesterday.""Sent for you--to talk to you about me?" The colour rose toher forehead and her eyes burned black under lowered brows.
　　"By what right, I should like to know? What have you to dowith me, or with anything in the world that concerns me?"Darrow instantly perceived what dread suspicion againpossessed her, and the sense that it was not whollyunjustified caused him a passing pang of shame. But it didnot turn him from his purpose.
　　"I'm an old friend of Mrs. Leath's. It's not unnatural thatMadame de Chantelle should talk to me."She dropped the screen on the table and stood up, turning onhim the same small mask of wrath and scorn which had glaredat him, in Paris, when he had confessed to his suppressionof her letter. She walked away a step or two and then cameback.
　　"May I ask what Madame de Chantelle said to you?""She made it clear that she should not encourage themarriage.""And what was her object in making that clear to YOU?"Darrow hesitated. "I suppose she thought----""That she could persuade you to turn Mrs. Leath against me?"He was silent, and she pressed him: "Was that it?""That was it.""But if you don't--if you keep your promise----""My promise?""To say nothing...nothing whatever..." Her strained lookthrew a haggard light along the pause.
　　As she spoke, the whole odiousness of the scene rushed overhim. "Of course I shall say nothing...you know that..." Heleaned to her and laid his hand on hers. "You know Iwouldn't for the world..."She drew back and hid her face with a sob. Then she sankagain into her seat, stretched her arms across the table andlaid her face upon them. He sat still, overwhelmed withcompunction. After a long interval, in which he hadpainfully measured the seconds by her hard-drawn breathing,she looked up at him with a face washed clear of bitterness.
　　"Don't suppose I don't know what you must have thought ofme!"The cry struck him down to a lower depth of self-abasement.
　　"My poor child," he felt like answering, "the shame of it isthat I've never thought of you at all!" But he could onlyuselessly repeat: "I'll do anything I can to help you."She sat silent, drumming the table with her hand. He sawthat her doubt of him was allayed, and the perception madehim more ashamed, as if her trust had first revealed to himhow near he had come to not deserving it. Suddenly shebegan to speak.
　　"You think, then, I've no right to marry him?""No right? God forbid! I only meant----""That you'd rather I didn't marry any friend of yours." Shebrought it out deliberately, not as a question, but as amere dispassionate statement of fact.
　　Darrow in turn stood up and wandered away helplessly to thewindow. He stood staring out through its small discolouredpanes at the dim brown distances; then he moved back to thetable.
　　"I'll tell you exactly what I meant. You'll be wretched ifyou marry a man you're not in love with."He knew the risk of misapprehension that he ran, but heestimated his chances of success as precisely in proportionto his peril. If certain signs meant what he thought theydid, he might yet--at what cost he would not stop to think--make his past pay for his future.
　　The girl, at his words, had lifted her head with a movementof surprise. Her eyes slowly reached his face and restedthere in a gaze of deep interrogation. He held the look fora moment; then his own eyes dropped and he waited.
　　At length she began to speak. "You're mistaken--you'requite mistaken."He waited a moment longer. "Mistaken----?""In thinking what you think. I'm as happy as if I deservedit!" she suddenly proclaimed with a laugh.
　　She stood up and moved toward the door. "NOW are yousatisfied?" she asked, turning her vividest face to him fromthe threshold.
Chapter 21
    Down the avenue there came to them, with the opening of thedoor, the voice of Owen's motor. It was the signal whichhad interrupted their first talk, and again, instinctively,they drew apart at the sound. Without a word Darrow turnedback into the room, while Sophy Viner went down the stepsand walked back alone toward the court.
　　At luncheon the presence of the surgeon, and the non-appearance of Madame de Chantelle--who had excused herselfon the plea of a headache--combined to shift theconversational centre of gravity; and Darrow, under shelterof the necessarily impersonal talk, had time to adjust hisdisguise and to perceive that the others were engaged in thesame re-arrangement. It was the first time that he had seenyoung Leath and Sophy Viner together since he had learned oftheir engagement; but neither revealed more emotion thanbefitted the occasion. It was evident that Owen was deeplyunder the girl's charm, and that at the least sign from herhis bliss would have broken bounds; but her reticence wasjustified by the tacitly recognized fact of Madame deChantelle's disapproval. This also visibly weighed onAnna's mind, making her manner to Sophy, if no less kind,yet a trifle more constrained than if the moment of finalunderstanding had been reached. So Darrow interpreted thetension perceptible under the fluent exchange ofcommonplaces in which he was diligently sharing. But he wasmore and more aware of his inability to test the moralatmosphere about him: he was like a man in fever testinganother's temperature by the touch.
　　After luncheon Anna, who was to motor the surgeon home,suggested to Darrow that he should accompany them. Effie wasalso of the party; and Darrow inferred that Anna wished togive her step-son a chance to be alone with his betrothed.
　　On the way back, after the surgeon had been left at hisdoor, the little girl sat between her mother and Darrow, andher presence kept their talk from taking a personal turn.
　　Darrow knew that Mrs. Leath had not yet told Effie of therelation in which he was to stand to her. The prematuredivulging of Owen's plans had thrown their own into thebackground, and by common consent they continued, in thelittle girl's presence, on terms of an informalfriendliness.
　　The sky had cleared after luncheon, and to prolong theirexcursion they returned by way of the ivy-mantled ruin whichwas to have been the scene of the projected picnic. Thiscircuit brought them back to the park gates not long beforesunset, and as Anna wished to stop at the lodge for news ofthe injured child Darrow left her there with Effie andwalked on alone to the house. He had the impression thatshe was slightly surprised at his not waiting for her; buthis inner restlessness vented itself in an intense desirefor bodily movement. He would have liked to walk himselfinto a state of torpor; to tramp on for hours through themoist winds and the healing darkness and come backstaggering with fatigue and sleep. But he had no pretextfor such a flight, and he feared that, at such a moment, hisprolonged absence might seem singular to Anna.
　　As he approached the house, the thought of her nearnessproduced a swift reaction of mood. It was as if an intenservision of her had scattered his perplexities like morningmists. At this moment, wherever she was, he knew he wassafely shut away in her thoughts, and the knowledge madeevery other fact dwindle away to a shadow. He and she lovedeach other, and their love arched over them open and ampleas the day: in all its sunlit spaces there was no cranny fora fear to lurk. In a few minutes he would be in her presenceand would read his reassurance in her eyes. And presently,before dinner, she would contrive that they should have anhour by themselves in her sitting-room, and he would sit bythe hearth and watch her quiet movements, and the way thebluish lustre on her hair purpled a little as she bent abovethe fire.
　　A carriage drove out of the court as he entered it, and inthe hall his vision was dispelled by the exceedinglysubstantial presence of a lady in a waterproof and a tweedhat, who stood firmly planted in the centre of a pile ofluggage, as to which she was giving involved but luciddirections to the footman who had just admitted her. Shewent on with these directions regardless of Darrow'sentrance, merely fixing her small pale eyes on him while sheproceeded, in a deep contralto voice, and a fluent Frenchpronounced with the purest Boston accent, to specify thedestination of her bags; and this enabled Darrow to give herback a gaze protracted enough to take in all the details ofher plain thick-set person, from the square sallow facebeneath bands of grey hair to the blunt boot-toes protrudingunder her wide walking skirt.
　　She submitted to this scrutiny with no more evidence ofsurprise than a monument examined by a tourist; but when thefate of her luggage had been settled she turned suddenly toDarrow and, dropping her eyes from his face to his feet,asked in trenchant accents: "What sort of boots have you goton?"Before he could summon his wits to the consideration of thisquestion she continued in a tone of suppressed indignation:
　　"Until Americans get used to the fact that France is underwater for half the year they're perpetually risking theirlives by not being properly protected. I suppose you'vebeen tramping through all this nasty clammy mud as if you'dbeen taking a stroll on Boston Common."Darrow, with a laugh, affirmed his previous experience ofFrench dampness, and the degree to which he was on his guardagainst it; but the lady, with a contemptuous snort,rejoined: "You young men are all alike----"; to which sheappended, after another hard look at him: "I suppose you'reGeorge Darrow? I used to know one of your mother's cousins,who married a Tunstall of Mount Vernon Street. My name isAdelaide Painter. Have you been in Boston lately? No? I'msorry for that. I hear there have been several new housesbuilt at the lower end of Commonwealth Avenue and I hopedyou could tell me about them. I haven't been there forthirty years myself."Miss Painter's arrival at Givre produced the same effect asthe wind's hauling around to the north after days of languidweather. When Darrow joined the group about the tea-tableshe had already given a tingle to the air. Madame deChantelle still remained invisible above stairs; but Darrowhad the impression that even through her drawn curtains andbolted doors a stimulating whiff must have entered.
　　Anna was in her usual seat behind the tea-tray, and SophyViner presently led in her pupil. Owen was also there,seated, as usual, a little apart from the others, andfollowing Miss Painter's massive movements and equallysubstantial utterances with a smile of secret intelligencewhich gave Darrow the idea of his having been in clandestineparley with the enemy. Darrow further took note that thegirl and her suitor perceptibly avoided each other; but thismight be a natural result of the tension Miss Painter hadbeen summoned to relieve.
　　Sophy Viner would evidently permit no recognition of thesituation save that which it lay with Madame de Chantelle toaccord; but meanwhile Miss Painter had proclaimed her tacitsense of it by summoning the girl to a seat at her side.
　　Darrow, as he continued to observe the newcomer, who wasperched on her arm-chair like a granite image on the edge ofa cliff, was aware that, in a more detached frame of mind,he would have found an extreme interest in studying andclassifying Miss Painter. It was not that she said anythingremarkable, or betrayed any of those unspoken perceptionswhich give significance to the most commonplace utterances.
　　She talked of the lateness of her train, of an impendingcrisis in international politics, of the difficulty ofbuying English tea in Paris and of the enormities of whichFrench servants were capable; and her views on thesesubjects were enunciated with a uniformity of emphasisimplying complete unconsciousness of any difference in theirinterest and importance. She always applied to the Frenchrace the distant epithet of "those people", but she betrayedan intimate acquaintance with many of its members, and anencyclopaedic knowledge of the domestic habits, financialdifficulties and private complications of various persons ofsocial importance. Yet, as she evidently felt noincongruity in her attitude, so she revealed no desire toparade her familiarity with the fashionable, or indeed anysense of it as a fact to be paraded. It was evident thatthe titled ladies whom she spoke of as Mimi or Simone orOdette were as much "those people" to her as the bonnewho tampered with her tea and steamed the stamps off herletters ("when, by a miracle, I don't put them in the boxmyself.") Her whole attitude was of a vast grim toleranceof things-as-they-came, as though she had been somewonderful automatic machine which recorded facts but had notyet been perfected to the point of sorting or labellingthem.
　　All this, as Darrow was aware, still fell short ofaccounting for the influence she obviously exerted on thepersons in contact with her. It brought a slight relief tohis state of tension to go on wondering, while he watchedand listened, just where the mystery lurked. Perhaps, afterall, it was in the fact of her blank insensibility, aninsensibility so devoid of egotism that it had no hardnessand no grimaces, but rather the freshness of a simplermental state. After living, as he had, as they all had, forthe last few days, in an atmosphere perpetually tremulouswith echoes and implications, it was restful and fortifyingmerely to walk into the big blank area of Miss Painter'smind, so vacuous for all its accumulated items, so echolessfor all its vacuity.
　　His hope of a word with Anna before dinner was dispelled byher rising to take Miss Painter up to Madame de Chantelle;and he wandered away to his own room, leaving Owen and MissViner engaged in working out a picture-puzzle for Effie.
　　Madame de Chantelle--possibly as the result of her friend'sministrations--was able to appear at the dinner-table,rather pale and pink-nosed, and casting tenderly reproachfulglances at her grandson, who faced them with imperviousserenity; and the situation was relieved by the fact thatMiss Viner, as usual, had remained in the school-room withher pupil.
　　Darrow conjectured that the real clash of arms would nottake place till the morrow; and wishing to leave the fieldopen to the contestants he set out early on a solitary walk.
　　It was nearly luncheon-time when he returned from it andcame upon Anna just emerging from the house. She had on herhat and jacket and was apparently coming forth to seek him,for she said at once: "Madame de Chantelle wants you to goup to her.""To go up to her? Now?""That's the message she sent. She appears to rely on you todo something." She added with a smile: "Whatever it is,let's have it over!"Darrow, through his rising sense of apprehension, wonderedwhy, instead of merely going for a walk, he had not jumpedinto the first train and got out of the way till Owen'saffairs were finally settled.
　　"But what in the name of goodness can I do?" he protested,following Anna back into the hall.
　　"I don't know. But Owen seems so to rely on you, too----""Owen! Is HE to be there?""No. But you know I told him he could count on you.""But I've said to your mother-in-law all I could.""Well, then you can only repeat it."This did not seem to Darrow to simplify his case as much asshe appeared to think; and once more he had a movement ofrecoil. "There's no possible reason for my being mixed upin this affair!"Anna gave him a reproachful glance. "Not the fact thatI am?" she reminded him; but even this only stiffened hisresistance.
　　"Why should you be, either--to this extent?"The question made her pause. She glanced about the hall, asif to be sure they had it to themselves; and then, in alowered voice: "I don't know," she suddenly confessed; "but,somehow, if THEY'RE not happy I feel as if we shouldn'tbe.""Oh, well--" Darrow acquiesced, in the tone of the man whoperforce yields to so lovely an unreasonableness. Escapewas, after all, impossible, and he could only resign himselfto being led to Madame de Chantelle's door.
　　Within, among the bric-a-brac and furbelows, he found MissPainter seated in a redundant purple armchair with theincongruous air of a horseman bestriding a heavy mount.
　　Madame de Chantelle sat opposite, still a little wan anddisordered under her elaborate hair, and clasping thehandkerchief whose visibility symbolized her distress. Onthe young man's entrance she sighed out a plaintive welcome,to which she immediately appended: "Mr. Darrow, I can't helpfeeling that at heart you're with me!"The directness of the challenge made it easier for Darrow toprotest, and he reiterated his inability to give an opinionon either side.
　　"But Anna declares you have--on hers!"He could not restrain a smile at this faint flaw in animpartiality so scrupulous. Every evidence of feminineinconsequence in Anna seemed to attest her deeper subjectionto the most inconsequent of passions. He had certainlypromised her his help--but before he knew what he waspromising.
　　He met Madame de Chantelle's appeal by replying: "If therewere anything I could possibly say I should want it to be inMiss Viner's favour.""You'd want it to be--yes! But could you make it so?""As far as facts go, I don't see how I can make it eitherfor or against her. I've already said that I know nothingof her except that she's charming.""As if that weren't enough--weren't all there OUGHT tobe!" Miss Painter put in impatiently. She seemed to addressherself to Darrow, though her small eyes were fixed on herfriend.
　　"Madame de Chantelle seems to imagine," she pursued, "that ayoung American girl ought to have a dossier--a police-record, or whatever you call it: what those awful women inthe streets have here. In our country it's enough to knowthat a young girl's pure and lovely: people don'timmediately ask her to show her bank-account and hervisiting-list."Madame de Chantelle looked plaintively at her sturdymonitress. "You don't expect me not to ask if she's got afamily?""No; nor to think the worse of her if she hasn't. The factthat she's an orphan ought, with your ideas, to be a merit.
　　You won't have to invite her father and mother to Givre!""Adelaide--Adelaide!" the mistress of Givre lamented.
　　"Lucretia Mary," the other returned--and Darrow spared aninstant's amusement to the quaint incongruity of the name--"you know you sent for Mr. Darrow to refute me; and how canhe, till he knows what I think?""You think it's perfectly simple to let Owen marry a girl weknow nothing about?""No; but I don't think it's perfectly simple to preventhim."The shrewdness of the answer increased Darrow's interest inMiss Painter. She had not hitherto struck him as being aperson of much penetration, but he now felt sure that hergimlet gaze might bore to the heart of any practicalproblem.
　　Madame de Chantelle sighed out her recognition of thedifficulty.
　　"I haven't a word to say against Miss Viner; but she'sknocked about so, as it's called, that she must have beenmixed up with some rather dreadful people. If only Owencould be made to see that--if one could get at a few facts,I mean. She says, for instance, that she has a sister; butit seems she doesn't even know her address!""If she does, she may not want to give it to you. I daresaythe sister's one of the dreadful people. I've no doubt thatwith a little time you could rake up dozens of them: haveher 'traced', as they call it in detective stories. I don'tthink you'd frighten Owen, but you might: it's naturalenough he should have been corrupted by those foreign ideas.
　　You might even manage to part him from the girl; but youcouldn't keep him from being in love with her. I saw thatwhen I looked them over last evening. I said to myself:
　　'It's a real old-fashioned American case, as sweet and soundas home-made bread.' Well, if you take his loaf away fromhim, what are you going to feed him with instead? Which ofyour nasty Paris poisons do you think he'll turn to?
　　Supposing you succeed in keeping him out of a really badmess--and, knowing the young man as I do, I rather thinkthat, at this crisis, the only way to do it would be tomarry him slap off to somebody else--well, then, who, may Iask, would you pick out? One of your sweet Frenchingenues, I suppose? With as much mind as a minnow and asmuch snap as a soft-boiled egg. You might hustle him intothat kind of marriage; I daresay you could--but if I knowOwen, the natural thing would happen before the first babywas weaned.""I don't know why you insinuate such odious things againstOwen!""Do you think it would be odious of him to return to hisreal love when he'd been forcibly parted from her? At anyrate, it's what your French friends do, every one of them!
　　Only they don't generally have the grace to go back to anold love; and I believe, upon my word, Owen would!"Madame de Chantelle looked at her with a mixture of awe andexultation. "Of course you realize, Adelaide, that insuggesting this you're insinuating the most shocking thingsagainst Miss Viner?""When I say that if you part two young things who are dyingto be happy in the lawful way it's ten to one they'll cometogether in an unlawful one? I'm insinuating shocking thingsagainst YOU, Lucretia Mary, in suggesting for a momentthat you'll care to assume such a responsibility before yourMaker. And you wouldn't, if you talked things straight outwith him, instead of merely sending him messages through amiserable sinner like yourself!"Darrow expected this assault on her adopted creed to provokein Madame de Chantelle an explosion of pious indignation;but to his surprise she merely murmured: "I don't know whatMr. Darrow'll think of you!""Mr. Darrow probably knows his Bible as well as I do," MissPainter calmly rejoined; adding a moment later, without theleast perceptible change of voice or expression: "I supposeyou've heard that Gisele de Folembray's husband accuses herof being mixed up with the Duc d'Arcachon in that businessof trying to sell a lot of imitation pearls to Mrs. HomerPond, the Chicago woman the Duke's engaged to? It seems thejeweller says Gisele brought Mrs. Pond there, and gottwenty-five per cent--which of course she passed on tod'Arcachon. The poor old Duchess is in a fearful state--soafraid her son'll lose Mrs. Pond! When I think that Giseleis old Bradford Wagstaff's grand-daughter, I'm thankful he'ssafe in Mount Auburn!"
Chapter 22
    It was not until late that afternoon that Darrow could claimhis postponed hour with Anna. When at last he found heralone in her sitting-room it was with a sense of liberationso great that he sought no logical justification of it. Hesimply felt that all their destinies were in Miss Painter'sgrasp, and that, resistance being useless, he could onlyenjoy the sweets of surrender.
　　Anna herself seemed as happy, and for more explicablereasons. She had assisted, after luncheon, at anotherdebate between Madame de Chantelle and her confidant, andhad surmised, when she withdrew from it, that victory waspermanently perched on Miss Painter's banners.
　　"I don't know how she does it, unless it's by the deadweight of her convictions. She detests the French so thatshe'd back up Owen even if she knew nothing--or knew toomuch--of Miss Viner. She somehow regards the match as aprotest against the corruption of European morals. I toldOwen that was his great chance, and he's made the most ofit.""What a tactician you are! You make me feel that I hardlyknow the rudiments of diplomacy," Darrow smiled at her,abandoning himself to a perilous sense of well-being.
　　She gave him back his smile. "I'm afraid I think nothingshort of my own happiness is worth wasting any diplomacyon!""That's why I mean to resign from the service of mycountry," he rejoined with a laugh of deep content.
　　The feeling that both resistance and apprehension were vainwas working like wine in his veins. He had done what hecould to deflect the course of events: now he could onlystand aside and take his chance of safety. Underneath thisfatalistic feeling was the deep sense of relief that he had,after all, said and done nothing that could in the leastdegree affect the welfare of Sophy Viner. That fact took amillstone off his neck.
　　Meanwhile he gave himself up once more to the joy of Anna'spresence. They had not been alone together for two longdays, and he had the lover's sense that he had forgotten, orat least underestimated, the strength of the spell she cast.
　　Once more her eyes and her smile seemed to bound his world.
　　He felt that their light would always move with him as thesunset moves before a ship at sea.
　　The next day his sense of security was increased by adecisive incident. It became known to the expectanthousehold that Madame de Chantelle had yielded to thetremendous impact of Miss Painter's determination and thatSophy Viner had been "sent for" to the purple satin sitting-room.
　　At luncheon, Owen's radiant countenance proclaimed the happysequel, and Darrow, when the party had moved back to theoak-room for coffee, deemed it discreet to wander out aloneto the terrace with his cigar. The conclusion of Owen'sromance brought his own plans once more to the front. Annahad promised that she would consider dates and settledetails as soon as Madame de Chantelle and her grandson hadbeen reconciled, and Darrow was eager to go into thequestion at once, since it was necessary that thepreparations for his marriage should go forward as rapidlyas possible. Anna, he knew, would not seek any fartherpretext for delay; and he strolled up and down contentedlyin the sunshine, certain that she would come out andreassure him as soon as the reunited family had claimed itsdue share of her attention.
　　But when she finally joined him her first word was for theyounger lovers.
　　"I want to thank you for what you've done for Owen," shebegan, with her happiest smile.
　　"Who--I?" he laughed. "Are you confusing me with MissPainter?""Perhaps I ought to say for ME," she corrected herself.
　　"You've been even more of a help to us than Adelaide.""My dear child! What on earth have I done?""You've managed to hide from Madame de Chantelle that youdon't really like poor Sophy."Darrow felt the pallour in his cheek. "Not like her? Whatput such an idea into your head?""Oh, it's more than an idea--it's a feeling. But whatdifference does it make, after all? You saw her in such adifferent setting that it's natural you should be a littledoubtful. But when you know her better I'm sure you'll feelabout her as I do.""It's going to be hard for me not to feel about everythingas you do.""Well, then--please begin with my daughter-in-law!"He gave her back in the same tone of banter: "Agreed: if youll agree to feel as I do about the pressing necessity of ourgetting married.""I want to talk to you about that too. You don't know whata weight is off my mind! With Sophy here for good, I shallfeel so differently about leaving Effie. I've seen muchmore accomplished governesses--to my cost!--but I've neverseen a young thing more gay and kind and human. You musthave noticed, though you've seen them so little together,how Effie expands when she's with her. And that, you know,is what I want. Madame de Chantelle will provide thenecessary restraint." She clasped her hands on his arm.
　　"Yes, I'm ready to go with you now. But first of all--thisvery moment!--you must come with me to Effie. She knows, ofcourse, nothing of what's been happening; and I want her tobe told first about YOU."Effie, sought throughout the house, was presently traced tothe school-room, and thither Darrow mounted with Anna. Hehad never seen her so alight with happiness, and he hadcaught her buoyancy of mood. He kept repeating to himself:
　　"It's over--it's over," as if some monstrous midnighthallucination had been routed by the return of day.
　　As they approached the school-room door the terrier's barkscame to them through laughing remonstrances.
　　"She's giving him his dinner," Anna whispered, her hand inDarrow's.
　　"Don't forget the gold-fish!" they heard another voice callout.
　　Darrow halted on the threshold. "Oh--not now!""Not now?""I mean--she'd rather have you tell her first. I'll waitfor you both downstairs."He was aware that she glanced at him intently. "As youplease. I'll bring her down at once."She opened the door, and as she went in he heard her say:
　　"No, Sophy, don't go! I want you both."The rest of Darrow's day was a succession of empty andagitating scenes. On his way down to Givre, before he hadseen Effie Leath, he had pictured somewhat sentimentally thejoy of the moment when he should take her in his arms andreceive her first filial kiss. Everything in him thategotistically craved for rest, stability, a comfortablyorganized middle-age, all the home-building instincts of theman who has sufficiently wooed and wandered, combined tothrow a charm about the figure of the child who might--whoshould--have been his. Effie came to him trailing the cloudof glory of his first romance, giving him back the magichour he had missed and mourned. And how different therealization of his dream had been! The child's radiantwelcome, her unquestioning acceptance of, this new figure inthe family group, had been all that he had hoped andfancied. If Mother was so awfully happy about it, and Owenand Granny, too, how nice and cosy and comfortable it wasgoing to be for all of them, her beaming look seemed to say;and then, suddenly, the small pink fingers he had beenkissing were laid on the one flaw in the circle, on the onepoint which must be settled before Effie could, withcomplete unqualified assurance, admit the new-comer to fullequality with the other gods of her Olympus.
　　"And is Sophy awfully happy about it too?" she had asked,loosening her hold on Darrow's neck to tilt back her headand include her mother in her questioning look.
　　"Why, dearest, didn't you see she was?" Anna had exclaimed,leaning to the group with radiant eyes.
　　"I think I should like to ask her," the child rejoined,after a minute's shy consideration; and as Darrow set herdown her mother laughed: "Do, darling, do! Run off at once,and tell her we expect her to be awfully happy too."The scene had been succeeded by others less poignant butalmost as trying. Darrow cursed his luck in having, at sucha moment, to run the gauntlet of a houseful of interestedobservers. The state of being "engaged", in itself anabsurd enough predicament, even to a man only intermittentlyexposed, became intolerable under the continuous scrutiny ofa small circle quivering with participation. Darrow wasfurthermore aware that, though the case of the other coupleought to have made his own less conspicuous, it was ratherthey who found a refuge in the shadow of his prominence.
　　Madame de Chantelle, though she had consented to Owen'sengagement and formally welcomed his betrothed, wasnevertheless not sorry to show, by her reception of Darrow,of what finely-shaded degrees of cordiality she was capable.
　　Miss Painter, having won the day for Owen, was also free toturn her attention to the newer candidate for her sympathy;and Darrow and Anna found themselves immersed in a warm bathof sentimental curiosity.
　　It was a relief to Darrow that he was under a positiveobligation to end his visit within the next forty-eighthours. When he left London, his Ambassador had accorded hima ten days' leave. His fate being definitely settled andopenly published he had no reason for asking to have thetime prolonged, and when it was over he was to return to hispost till the time fixed for taking up his new duties. Annaand he had therefore decided to be married, in Paris, a dayor two before the departure of the steamer which was to takethem to South America; and Anna, shortly after his return toEngland, was to go up to Paris and begin her ownpreparations.
　　In honour of the double betrothal Effie and Miss Viner wereto appear that evening at dinner; and Darrow, on leaving hisroom, met the little girl springing down the stairs, herwhite ruffles and coral-coloured bows making her look like adaisy with her yellow hair for its centre. Sophy Viner wasbehind her pupil, and as she came into the light Darrownoticed a change in her appearance and wondered vaguely whyshe looked suddenly younger, more vivid, more like thelittle luminous ghost of his Paris memories. Then itoccurred to him that it was the first time she had appearedat dinner since his arrival at Givre, and the first time,consequently, that he had seen her in evening dress. Shewas still at the age when the least adornment embellishes;and no doubt the mere uncovering of her young throat andneck had given her back her former brightness. But a secondglance showed a more precise reason for his impression.
　　Vaguely though he retained such details, he felt sure shewas wearing the dress he had seen her in every evening inParis. It was a simple enough dress, black, and transparenton the arms and shoulders, and he would probably not haverecognized it if she had not called his attention to it inParis by confessing that she hadn't any other. "The samedress? That proves that she's forgotten!" was his firsthalf-ironic thought; but the next moment, with a pang ofcompunction, he said to himself that she had probably put iton for the same reason as before: simply because she hadn'tany other.
　　He looked at her in silence, and for an instant, aboveEffie's bobbing head, she gave him back his look in a fullbright gaze.
　　"Oh, there's Owen!" Effie cried, and whirled away down thegallery to the door from which her step-brother wasemerging. As Owen bent to catch her, Sophy Viner turnedabruptly back to Darrow.
　　"You, too?" she said with a quick laugh. "I didn't know----" And as Owen came up to them she added, in a tone thatmight have been meant to reach his ear: "I wish you all theluck that we can spare!"About the dinner-table, which Effie, with Miss Viner's aid,had lavishly garlanded, the little party had an air ofsomewhat self-conscious festivity. In spite of flowers,champagne and a unanimous attempt at ease, there werefrequent lapses in the talk, and moments of nervous gropingfor new subjects. Miss Painter alone seemed not onlyunaffected by the general perturbation but as tightly sealedup in her unconsciousness of it as a diver in his bell. ToDarrow's strained attention even Owen's gusts of gaietyseemed to betray an inward sense of insecurity. Afterdinner, however, at the piano, he broke into a mood ofextravagant hilarity and flooded the room with the splashand ripple of his music.
　　Darrow, sunk in a sofa corner in the lee of Miss Painter'sgranite bulk, smoked and listened in silence, his eyesmoving from one figure to another. Madame de Chantelle, inher armchair near the fire, clasped her little granddaughterto her with the gesture of a drawing-room Niobe, and Anna,seated near them, had fallen into one of the attitudes ofvivid calm which seemed to Darrow to express her inmostquality. Sophy Viner, after moving uncertainly about theroom, had placed herself beyond Mrs. Leath, in a chair nearthe piano, where she sat with head thrown back and eyesattached to the musician, in the same rapt fixity ofattention with which she had followed the players at theFrancais. The accident of her having fallen into the sameattitude, and of her wearing the same dress, gave Darrow, ashe watched her, a strange sense of double consciousness. Toescape from it, his glance turned back to Anna; but from thepoint at which he was placed his eyes could not take in theone face without the other, and that renewed the disturbingduality of the impression. Suddenly Owen broke off with acrash of chords and jumped to his feet.
　　"What's the use of this, with such a moon to say it for us?"Behind the uncurtained window a low golden orb hung like aripe fruit against the glass.
　　"Yes--let's go out and listen," Anna answered. Owen threwopen the window, and with his gesture a fold of the heavystar-sprinkled sky seemed to droop into the room like adrawn-in curtain. The air that entered with it had a frostyedge, and Anna bade Effie run to the hall for wraps.
　　Darrow said: "You must have one too," and started toward thedoor; but Sophy, following her pupil, cried back: "We'llbring things for everybody."Owen had followed her, and in a moment the three reappeared,and the party went out on the terrace. The deep blue purityof the night was unveiled by mist, and the moonlight rimmedthe edges of the trees with a silver blur and blanched tounnatural whiteness the statues against their walls ofshade.
　　Darrow and Anna, with Effie between them, strolled to thefarther corner of the terrace. Below them, between thefringes of the park, the lawn sloped dimly to the fieldsabove the river. For a few minutes they stood silently sideby side, touched to peace beneath the trembling beauty ofthe sky. When they turned back, Darrow saw that Owen andSophy Viner, who had gone down the steps to the garden, werealso walking in the direction of the house. As theyadvanced, Sophy paused in a patch of moonlight, between thesharp shadows of the yews, and Darrow noticed that she hadthrown over her shoulders a long cloak of some light colour,which suddenly evoked her image as she had entered therestaurant at his side on the night of their first dinner inParis. A moment later they were all together again on theterrace, and when they re-entered the drawing-room the olderladies were on their way to bed.
　　Effie, emboldened by the privileges of the evening, was forcoaxing Owen to round it off with a game of forfeits or somesuch reckless climax; but Sophy, resuming her professionalrole, sounded the summons to bed. In her pupil's wake shemade her round of good-nights; but when she proffered herhand to Anna, the latter ignoring the gesture held out botharms.
　　"Good-night, dear child," she said impulsively, and drew thegirl to her kiss.
Chapter 23
    The next day was Darrow's last at Givre and, foreseeing thatthe afternoon and evening would have to be given to thefamily, he had asked Anna to devote an early hour to thefinal consideration of their plans. He was to meet her inthe brown sitting-room at ten, and they were to walk down tothe river and talk over their future in the little pavilionabutting on the wall of the park.
　　It was just a week since his arrival at Givre, and Annawished, before he left, to return to the place where theyhad sat on their first afternoon together. Hersensitiveness to the appeal of inanimate things, to thecolour and texture of whatever wove itself into thesubstance of her emotion, made her want to hear Darrow'svoice, and to feel his eyes on her, in the spot where blisshad first flowed into her heart.
　　That bliss, in the interval, had wound itself into everyfold of her being. Passing, in the first days, from a highshy tenderness to the rush of a secret surrender, it hadgradually widened and deepened, to flow on in redoubledbeauty. She thought she now knew exactly how and why sheloved Darrow, and she could see her whole sky reflected inthe deep and tranquil current of her love.
　　Early the next day, in her sitting-room, she was glancingthrough the letters which it was Effie's morning privilegeto carry up to her. Effie meanwhile circled inquisitivelyabout the room, where there was always something new toengage her infant fancy; and Anna, looking up, saw hersuddenly arrested before a photograph of Darrow which, theday before, had taken its place on the writing-table.
　　Anna held out her arms with a faint blush. "You do likehim, don't you, dear?""Oh, most awfully, dearest," Effie, against her breast,leaned back to assure her with a limpid look. "And so doGranny and Owen--and I DO think Sophy does too," sheadded, after a moment's earnest pondering.
　　"I hope so," Anna laughed. She checked the impulse tocontinue: "Has she talked to you about him, that you're sosure?" She did not know what had made the question spring toher lips, but she was glad she had closed them beforepronouncing it. Nothing could have been more distasteful toher than to clear up such obscurities by turning on them thetiny flame of her daughter's observation. And what, afterall, now that Owen's happiness was secured, did it matter ifthere were certain reserves in Darrow's approval of hismarriage?
　　A knock on the door made Anna glance at the clock. "There'sNurse to carry you off.""It's Sophy's knock," the little girl answered, jumping downto open the door; and Miss Viner in fact stood on thethreshold.
　　"Come in," Anna said with a smile, instantly remarking howpale she looked.
　　"May Effie go out for a turn with Nurse?" the girl asked.
　　"I should like to speak to you a moment.""Of course. This ought to be YOUR holiday, as yesterdaywas Effie's. Run off, dear," she added, stooping to kissthe little girl.
　　When the door had closed she turned back to Sophy Viner witha look that sought her confidence. "I'm so glad you came,my dear. We've got so many things to talk about, just youand I together."The confused intercourse of the last days had, in fact, leftlittle time for any speech with Sophy but such as related toher marriage and the means of overcoming Madame deChantelle's opposition to it. Anna had exacted of Owen thatno one, not even Sophy Viner, should be given a hint of herown projects till all contingent questions had been disposedof. She had felt, from the outset, a secret reluctance tointrude her securer happiness on the doubts and fears of theyoung pair.
　　From the sofa-corner to which she had dropped back shepointed to Darrow's chair. "Come and sit by me, dear. Iwanted to see you alone. There's so much to say that Ihardly know where to begin."She leaned forward, her hands clasped on the arms of thesofa, her eyes bent smilingly on Sophy's. As she did so,she noticed that the girl's unusual pallour was partly dueto the slight veil of powder on her face. The discovery wasdistinctly disagreeable. Anna had never before noticed, onSophy's part, any recourse to cosmetics, and, much as shewished to think herself exempt from old-fashionedprejudices, she suddenly became aware that she did not likeher daughter's governess to have a powdered face. Then shereflected that the girl who sat opposite her was no longerEffie's governess, but her own future daughter-in-law; andshe wondered whether Miss Viner had chosen this odd way ofcelebrating her independence, and whether, as Mrs. OwenLeath, she would present to the world a bedizenedcountenance. This idea was scarcely less distasteful thanthe other, and for a moment Anna continued to consider herwithout speaking. Then, in a flash, the truth came to her:
　　Miss Viner had powdered her face because Miss Viner had beencrying.
　　Anna leaned forward impulsively. "My dear child, what's thematter?" She saw the girl's blood rush up under the whitemask, and hastened on: "Please don't be afraid to tell me.
　　I do so want you to feel that you can trust me as Owen does.
　　And you know you mustn't mind if, just at first, Madame deChantelle occasionally relapses."She spoke eagerly, persuasively, almost on a note ofpleading. She had, in truth, so many reasons for wantingSophy to like her: her love for Owen, her solicitude forEffie, and her own sense of the girl's fine mettle. She hadalways felt a romantic and almost humble admiration forthose members of her sex who, from force of will, or theconstraint of circumstances, had plunged into the conflictfrom which fate had so persistently excluded her. Therewere even moments when she fancied herself vaguely to blamefor her immunity, and felt that she ought somehow to haveaffronted the perils and hardships which refused to come toher. And now, as she sat looking at Sophy Viner, so small,so slight, so visibly defenceless and undone, she stillfelt, through all the superiority of her worldly advantagesand her seeming maturity, the same odd sense of ignoranceand inexperience. She could not have said what there was inthe girl's manner and expression to give her this feeling,but she was reminded, as she looked at Sophy Viner, of theother girls she had known in her youth, the girls who seemedpossessed of a secret she had missed. Yes, Sophy Viner hadtheir look--almost the obscurely menacing look of KittyMayne...Anna, with an inward smile, brushed aside the imageof this forgotten rival. But she had felt, deep down, atwinge of the old pain, and she was sorry that, even for theflash of a thought, Owen's betrothed should have remindedher of so different a woman...
　　She laid her hand on the girl's. "When his grandmother seeshow happy Owen is she'll be quite happy herself. If it'sonly that, don't be distressed. Just trust to Owen--and thefuture."Sophy Viner, with an almost imperceptible recoil of herwhole slight person, had drawn her hand from under the palmenclosing it.
　　"That's what I wanted to talk to you about--the future.""Of course! We've all so many plans to make--and to fit intoeach other's. Please let's begin with yours."The girl paused a moment, her hands clasped on the arms ofher chair, her lids dropped under Anna's gaze; then shesaid: "I should like to make no plans at all...just yet...""No plans?""No--I should like to go away...my friends the Farlows wouldlet me go to them..." Her voice grew firmer and she liftedher eyes to add: "I should like to leave today, if you don'tmind."Anna listened with a rising wonder.
　　"You want to leave Givre at once?" She gave the idea amoment's swift consideration. "You prefer to be with yourfriends till your marriage? I understand that--but surelyyou needn't rush off today? There are so many details todiscuss; and before long, you know, I shall be going awaytoo.""Yes, I know." The girl was evidently trying to steady hervoice. "But I should like to wait a few days--to have alittle more time to myself."Anna continued to consider her kindly. It was evident thatshe did not care to say why she wished to leave Givre sosuddenly, but her disturbed face and shaken voice betrayed amore pressing motive than the natural desire to spend theweeks before her marriage under her old friends' roof.
　　Since she had made no response to the allusion to Madame deChantelle, Anna could but conjecture that she had had apassing disagreement with Owen; and if this were so, randominterference might do more harm than good.
　　"My dear child, if you really want to go at once I sha'n't,of course, urge you to stay. I suppose you have spoken toOwen?""No. Not yet..."Anna threw an astonished glance at her. "You mean to sayyou haven't told him?""I wanted to tell you first. I thought I ought to, onaccount of Effie." Her look cleared as she put forth thisreason.
　　"Oh, Effie!--" Anna's smile brushed away the scruple. "Owenhas a right to ask that you should consider him before youthink of his sister...Of course you shall do just as youwish," she went on, after another thoughtful interval.
　　"Oh, thank you," Sophy Viner murmured and rose to her feet.
　　Anna rose also, vaguely seeking for some word that shouldbreak down the girl's resistance. "You'll tell Owen atonce?" she finally asked.
　　Miss Viner, instead of replying, stood before her inmanifest uncertainty, and as she did so there was a lighttap on the door, and Owen Leath walked into the room.
　　Anna's first glance told her that his face was unclouded.
　　He met her greeting with his happiest smile and turned tolift Sophy's hand to his lips. The perception that he wasutterly unconscious of any cause for Miss Viner's agitationcame to his step-mother with a sharp thrill of surprise.
　　"Darrow's looking for you," he said to her. "He asked me toremind you that you'd promised to go for a walk with him."Anna glanced at the clock. "I'll go down presently." Shewaited and looked again at Sophy Viner, whose troubled eyesseemed to commit their message to her. "You'd better tellOwen, my dear."Owen's look also turned on the girl. "Tell me what? Why,what's happened?"Anna summoned a laugh to ease the vague tension of themoment. "Don't look so startled! Nothing, except that Sophyproposes to desert us for a while for the Farlows."Owen's brow cleared. "I was afraid she'd run off beforelong." He glanced at Anna. "Do please keep her here as longas you can!"Sophy intervened: "Mrs. Leath's already given me leave togo.""Already? To go when?""Today," said Sophy in a low tone, her eyes on Anna's.
　　"Today? Why on earth should you go today?" Owen dropped backa step or two, flushing and paling under his bewilderedfrown. His eyes seemed to search the girl more closely.
　　"Something's happened." He too looked at his step-mother.
　　"I suppose she must have told you what it is?"Anna was struck by the suddenness and vehemence of hisappeal. It was as though some smouldering apprehension hadlain close under the surface of his security.
　　"She's told me nothing except that she wishes to be with herfriends. It's quite natural that she should want to go tothem."Owen visibly controlled himself. "Of course--quitenatural." He spoke to Sophy. "But why didn't you tell meso? Why did you come first to my step-mother?"Anna intervened with her calm smile. "That seems to mequite natural, too. Sophy was considerate enough to tell mefirst because of Effie."He weighed it. "Very well, then: that's quite natural, asyou say. And of course she must do exactly as she pleases."He still kept his eyes on the girl. "Tomorrow," he abruptlyannounced, "I shall go up to Paris to see you.""Oh, no--no!" she protested.
　　Owen turned back to Anna. "NOW do you say thatnothing's happened?"Under the influence of his agitation Anna felt a vaguetightening of the heart. She seemed to herself like someone in a dark room about whom unseen presences are groping.
　　"If it's anything that Sophy wishes to tell you, no doubtshe'll do so. I'm going down now, and I'll leave you hereto talk it over by yourselves."As she moved to the door the girl caught up with her. "Butthere's nothing to tell: why should there be? I've explainedthat I simply want to be quiet." Her look seemed to detainMrs. Leath.
　　Owen broke in: "Is that why I mayn't go up tomorrow?""Not tomorrow!""Then when may I?""Later...in a little while...a few days...""In how many days?""Owen!" his step-mother interposed; but he seemed no longeraware of her. "If you go away today, the day that ourengagement's made known, it's only fair," he persisted,"that you should tell me when I am to see you."Sophy's eyes wavered between the two and dropped downwearily. "It's you who are not fair--when I've said Iwanted to be quiet.""But why should my coming disturb you? I'm not asking now tocome tomorrow. I only ask you not to leave without tellingme when I'm to see you.""Owen, I don't understand you!" his step-mother exclaimed.
　　"You don't understand my asking for some explanation, someassurance, when I'm left in this way, without a word,without a sign? All I ask her to tell me is when she'll seeme."Anna turned back to Sophy Viner, who stood straight andtremulous between the two.
　　"After all, my dear, he's not unreasonable!""I'll write--I'll write," the girl repeated.
　　"WHAT will you write?" he pressed her vehemently.
　　"Owen," Anna exclaimed, "you are unreasonable!"He turned from Sophy to his step-mother. "I only want herto say what she means: that she's going to write to breakoff our engagement. Isn't that what you're going away for?"Anna felt the contagion of his excitement. She looked atSophy, who stood motionless, her lips set, her whole facedrawn to a silent fixity of resistance.
　　"You ought to speak, my dear--you ought to answer him.""I only ask him to wait----""Yes," Owen, broke in, "and you won't say how long!"Both instinctively addressed themselves to Anna, who stood,nearly as shaken as themselves, between the double shock oftheir struggle. She looked again from Sophy's inscrutableeyes to Owen's stormy features; then she said: "What can Ido, when there's clearly something between you that I don'tknow about?""Oh, if it WERE between us! Can't you see it's outsideof us--outside of her, dragging at her, dragging her awayfrom me?" Owen wheeled round again upon his step-mother.
　　Anna turned from him to the girl. "Is it true that you wantto break your engagement? If you do, you ought to tell himnow."Owen burst into a laugh. "She doesn't dare to--she's afraidI'll guess the reason!"A faint sound escaped from Sophy's lips, but she kept themclose on whatever answer she had ready.
　　"If she doesn't wish to marry you, why should she be afraidto have you know the reason?""She's afraid to have YOU know it--not me!""To have ME know it?"He laughed again, and Anna, at his laugh, felt a sudden rushof indignation.
　　"Owen, you must explain what you mean!"He looked at her hard before answering; then: "Ask Darrow!"he said.
　　"Owen--Owen!" Sophy Viner murmured.
Chapter 24
    Anna stood looking from one to the other. It had becomeapparent to her in a flash that Owen's retort, though itstartled Sophy, did not take her by surprise; and thediscovery shot its light along dark distances of fear.
　　The immediate inference was that Owen had guessed the reasonof Darrow's disapproval of his marriage, or that, at least,he suspected Sophy Viner of knowing and dreading it. Thisconfirmation of her own obscure doubt sent a tremor of alarmthrough Anna. For a moment she felt like exclaiming: "Allthis is really no business of mine, and I refuse to have youmix me up in it--" but her secret fear held her fast.
　　Sophy Viner was the first to speak.
　　"I should like to go now," she said in a low voice, taking afew steps toward the door.
　　Her tone woke Anna to the sense of her own share in thesituation. "I quite agree with you, my dear, that it'suseless to carry on this discussion. But since Mr. Darrow'sname has been brought into it, for reasons which I fail toguess, I want to tell you that you're both mistaken if youthink he's not in sympathy with your marriage. If that'swhat Owen means to imply, the idea's a complete delusion."She spoke the words deliberately and incisively, as ifhoping that the sound of their utterance would stifle thewhisper in her bosom.
　　Sophy's only answer was a vague murmur, and a movement thatbrought her nearer to the door; but before she could reachit Owen had placed himself in her way.
　　"I don't mean to imply what you think," he said, addressinghis step-mother but keeping his eyes on the girl. "I don'tsay Darrow doesn't like our marriage; I say it's Sophy who'shated it since Darrow's been here!"He brought out the charge in a tone of forced composure, buthis lips were white and he grasped the doorknob to hide thetremor of his hand.
　　Anna's anger surged up with her fears. "You're absurd,Owen! I don't know why I listen to you. Why should Sophydislike Mr. Darrow, and if she does, why should that haveanything to do with her wishing to break her engagement?""I don't say she dislikes him! I don't say she likes him; Idon't know what it is they say to each other when they'reshut up together alone.""Shut up together alone?" Anna stared. Owen seemed like aman in delirium; such an exhibition was degrading to themall. But he pushed on without seeing her look.
　　"Yes--the first evening she came, in the study; the nextmorning, early, in the park; yesterday, again, in thespring-house, when you were at the lodge with the doctor...Idon't know what they say to each other, but they've takenevery chance they could to say it...and to say it when theythought that no one saw them."Anna longed to silence him, but no words came to her. It wasas though all her confused apprehensions had suddenly takendefinite shape. There was "something"--yes, there was"something"...Darrow's reticences and evasions had been morethan a figment of her doubts.
　　The next instant brought a recoil of pride. She turnedindignantly on her step-son.
　　"I don't half understand what you've been saying; but whatyou seem to hint is so preposterous, and so insulting bothto Sophy and to me, that I see no reason why we shouldlisten to you any longer."Though her tone steadied Owen, she perceived at once that itwould not deflect him from his purpose. He spoke lessvehemently, but with all the more precision.
　　"How can it be preposterous, since it's true? Or insulting,since I don't know, any more than YOU, the meaning ofwhat I've been seeing? If you'll be patient with me I'll tryto put it quietly. What I mean is that Sophy has completelychanged since she met Darrow here, and that, having noticedthe change, I'm hardly to blame for having tried to find outits cause."Anna made an effort to answer him with the same composure.
　　"You're to blame, at any rate, for so recklessly assumingthat you HAVE found it out. You seem to forget that,till they met here, Sophy and Mr. Darrow hardly knew eachother.""If so, it's all the stranger that they've been so oftencloseted together!""Owen, Owen--" the girl sighed out.
　　He turned his haggard face to her. "Can I help it, if I'veseen and known what I wasn't meant to? For God's sake giveme a reason--any reason I can decently make out with! Is itmy fault if, the day after you arrived, when I came backlate through the garden, the curtains of the study hadn'tbeen drawn, and I saw you there alone with Darrow?"Anna laughed impatiently. "Really, Owen, if you make it agrievance that two people who are staying in the same houseshould be seen talking together----!""They were not talking. That's the point----""Not talking? How do you know? You could hardly hear themfrom the garden!""No; but I could see. HE was sitting at my desk, withhis face in his hands. SHE was standing in the window,looking away from him..."He waited, as if for Sophy Viner's answer; but still sheneither stirred nor spoke.
　　"That was the first time," he went on; "and the second wasthe next morning in the park. It was natural enough, theirmeeting there. Sophy had gone out with Effie, and Effie ranback to look for me. She told me she'd left Sophy andDarrow in the path that leads to the river, and presently wesaw them ahead of us. They didn't see us at first, becausethey were standing looking at each other; and this time theywere not speaking either. We came up close before theyheard us, and all that time they never spoke, or stoppedlooking at each other. After that I began to wonder; and soI watched them.""Oh, Owen!""Oh, I only had to wait. Yesterday, when I motored you andthe doctor back from the lodge, I saw Sophy coming out ofthe spring-house. I supposed she'd taken shelter from therain, and when you got out of the motor I strolled back downthe avenue to meet her. But she'd disappeared--she musthave taken a short cut and come into the house by the sidedoor. I don't know why I went on to the spring-house; Isuppose it was what you'd call spying. I went up the stepsand found the room empty; but two chairs had been moved outfrom the wall and were standing near the table; and one ofthe Chinese screens that lie on it had dropped to thefloor."Anna sounded a faint note of irony. "Really? Sophy'd gonethere for shelter, and she dropped a screen and moved achair?""I said two chairs----""Two? What damning evidence--of I don't know what!""Simply of the fact that Darrow'd been there with her. As Ilooked out of the window I saw him close by, walking away.
　　He must have turned the corner of the spring-house just as Igot to the door."There was another silence, during which Anna paused, notonly to collect her own words but to wait for Sophy Viner's;then, as the girl made no sign, she turned to her.
　　"I've absolutely nothing to say to all this; but perhapsyou'd like me to wait and hear your answer?"Sophy raised her head with a quick flash of colour. "I've noanswer either--except that Owen must be mad."In the interval since she had last spoken she seemed to haveregained her self-control, and her voice rang clear, with acold edge of anger.
　　Anna looked at her step-son. He had grown extremely pale,and his hand fell from the door with a discouraged gesture.
　　"That's all then? You won't give me any reason?""I didn't suppose it was necessary to give you or any oneelse a reason for talking with a friend of Mrs. Leath'sunder Mrs. Leath's own roof."Owen hardly seemed to feel the retort: he kept his doggedstare on her face.
　　"I won't ask for one, then. I'll only ask you to give meyour assurance that your talks with Darrow have had nothingto do with your suddenly deciding to leave Givre."She hesitated, not so much with the air of weighing heranswer as of questioning his right to exact any. "I giveyou my assurance; and now I should like to go," she said.
　　As she turned away, Anna intervened. "My dear, I think youought to speak."The girl drew herself up with a faint laugh. "To him--or toYOU?""To him."She stiffened. "I've said all there is to say."Anna drew back, her eyes on her step-son. He had left thethreshold and was advancing toward Sophy Viner with a motionof desperate appeal; but as he did so there was a knock onthe door. A moment's silence fell on the three; then Annasaid: "Come in!"Darrow came into the room. Seeing the three together, helooked rapidly from one to the other; then he turned to Annawith a smile.
　　"I came up to see if you were ready; but please send me offif I'm not wanted."His look, his voice, the simple sense of his presence,restored Anna's shaken balance. By Owen's side he looked sostrong, so urbane, so experienced, that the lad's passionatecharges dwindled to mere boyish vapourings. A moment agoshe had dreaded Darrow's coming; now she was glad that hewas there.
　　She turned to him with sudden decision. "Come in, please; Iwant you to hear what Owen has been saying."She caught a murmur from Sophy Viner, but disregarded it.
　　An illuminating impulse urged her on. She, habitually soaware of her own lack of penetration, her small skill inreading hidden motives and detecting secret signals, nowfelt herself mysteriously inspired. She addressed herself toSophy Viner. "It's much better for you both that thisabsurd question should be cleared up now " Then, turning toDarrow, she continued: "For some reason that I don't pretendto guess, Owen has taken it into his head that you'veinfluenced Miss Viner to break her engagement."She spoke slowly and deliberately, because she wished togive time and to gain it; time for Darrow and Sophy toreceive the full impact of what she was saying, and time toobserve its full effect on them. She had said to herself:
　　"If there's nothing between them, they'll look at eachother; if there IS something, they won't;" and as sheceased to speak she felt as if all her life were in hereyes.
　　Sophy, after a start of protest, remained motionless, hergaze on the ground. Darrow, his face grown grave, glancedslowly from Owen Leath to Anna. With his eyes on the latterhe asked: "Has Miss Viner broken her engagement?"A moment's silence followed his question; then the girllooked up and said: "Yes!"Owen, as she spoke, uttered a smothered exclamation andwalked out of the room. She continued to stand in the sameplace, without appearing to notice his departure, andwithout vouchsafing an additional word of explanation; then,before Anna could find a cry to detain her, she too turnedand went out.
　　"For God's sake, what's happened?" Darrow asked; but Anna,with a drop of the heart, was saying to herself that he andSophy Viner had not looked at each other.
Chapter 25
    Anna stood in the middle of the room, her eyes on the door.
　　Darrow's questioning gaze was still on her, and she said toherself with a quick-drawn breath: "If only he doesn't comenear me!"It seemed to her that she had been suddenly endowed with thefatal gift of reading the secret sense of every seeminglyspontaneous look and movement, and that in his least gestureof affection she would detect a cold design.
　　For a moment longer he continued to look at her enquiringly;then he turned away and took up his habitual stand by themantel-piece. She drew a deep breath of relief .
　　"Won't you please explain?" he said.
　　"I can't explain: I don't know. I didn't even know--tillshe told you--that she really meant to break her engagement.
　　All I know is that she came to me just now and said shewished to leave Givre today; and that Owen, when he heard ofit--for she hadn't told him--at once accused her of goingaway with the secret intention of throwing him over.""And you think it's a definite break?" She perceived, as shespoke, that his brow had cleared.
　　"How should I know? Perhaps you can tell me.""I?" She fancied his face clouded again, but he did not movefrom his tranquil attitude.
　　"As I told you," she went on, "Owen has worked himself up toimagining that for some mysterious reason you've influencedSophy against him."Darrow still visibly wondered. "It must indeed be amysterious reason! He knows how slightly I know Miss Viner.
　　Why should he imagine anything so wildly improbable?""I don't know that either.""But he must have hinted at some reason.""No: he admits he doesn't know your reason. He simply saysthat Sophy's manner to him has changed since she came backto Givre and that he's seen you together several times--inthe park, the spring-house, I don't know where--talkingalone in a way that seemed confidential--almost secret; andhe draws the preposterous conclusion that you've used yourinfluence to turn her against him.""My influence? What kind of influence?""He doesn't say."Darrow again seemed to turn over the facts she gave him.
　　His face remained grave, but without the least trace ofdiscomposure. "And what does Miss Viner say?""She says it's perfectly natural that she shouldoccasionally talk to my friends when she's under my roof--and refuses to give him any other explanation.""That at least is perfectly natural!"Anna felt her cheeks flush as she answered: "Yes--but thereis something----""Something----?""Some reason for her sudden decision to break herengagement. I can understand Owen's feeling, sorry as I amfor his way of showing it. The girl owes him some sort ofexplanation, and as long as she refuses to give it hisimagination is sure to run wild.""She would have given it, no doubt, if he d asked it in adifferent tone.""I don't defend Owen's tone--but she knew what it was beforeshe accepted him. She knows he's excitable andundisciplined.""Well, she's been disciplining him a little--probably thebest thing that could happen. Why not let the matter restthere?""Leave Owen with the idea that you HAVE been the causeof the break?"He met the question with his easy smile. "Oh, as to that--leave him with any idea of me he chooses! But leave him, atany rate, free.""Free?" she echoed in surprise.
　　"Simply let things be. You've surely done all you could forhim and Miss Viner. If they don't hit it off it's their ownaffair. What possible motive can you have for trying tointerfere now?"Her gaze widened to a deeper wonder. "Why--naturally, whathe says of you!""I don't care a straw what he says of me! In such asituation a boy in love will snatch at the most far-fetchedreason rather than face the mortifying fact that the ladymay simply be tired of him.""You don t quite understand Owen. Things go deep with him,and last long. It took him a long time to recover from hisother unlucky love affair. He's romantic and extravagant:
　　he can't live on the interest of his feelings. He worshipsSophy and she seemed to be fond of him. If she's changedit's been very sudden. And if they part like this, angrilyand inarticulately, it will hurt him horribly--hurt his verysoul. But that, as you say, is between the two. Whatconcerns me is his associating you with their quarrel.
　　Owen's like my own son--if you'd seen him when I first camehere you'd know why. We were like two prisoners who talk toeach other by tapping on the wall. He's never forgotten it,nor I. Whether he breaks with Sophy, or whether they makeit up, I can't let him think you had anything to do withit."She raised her eyes entreatingly to Darrow's, and read inthem the forbearance of the man resigned to the discussionof non-existent problems.
　　"I'll do whatever you want me to," he said; "but I don't yetknow what it is."His smile seemed to charge her with inconsequence, and theprick to her pride made her continue: "After all, it's notso unnatural that Owen, knowing you and Sophy to be almoststrangers, should wonder what you were saying to each otherwhen he saw you talking together."She felt a warning tremor as she spoke, as though someinstinct deeper than reason surged up in defense of itstreasure. But Darrow's face was unstirred save by the flitof his half-amused smile.
　　"Well, my dear--and couldn't you have told him?""I?" she faltered out through her blush.
　　"You seem to forget, one and all of you, the position youput me in when I came down here: your appeal to me to seeOwen through, your assurance to him that I would, Madame deChantelle's attempt to win me over; and most of all, my ownsense of the fact you've just recalled to me: theimportance, for both of us, that Owen should like me. Itseemed to me that the first thing to do was to get as muchlight as I could on the whole situation; and the obvious wayof doing it was to try to know Miss Viner better. Of courseI've talked with her alone--I've talked with her as often asI could. I've tried my best to find out if you were rightin encouraging Owen to marry her."She listened with a growing sense of reassurance, strugglingto separate the abstract sense of his words from thepersuasion in which his eyes and voice enveloped them.
　　"I see--I do see," she murmured.
　　"You must see, also, that I could hardly say this to Owenwithout offending him still more, and perhaps increasing thebreach between Miss Viner and himself. What sort of figureshould I cut if I told him I'd been trying to find out ifhe'd made a proper choice? In any case, it's none of mybusiness to offer an explanation of what she justly saysdoesn't need one. If she declines to speak, it's obviouslyon the ground that Owen's insinuations are absurd; and thatsurely pledges me to silence.""Yes, yes! I see," Anna repeated. "But I don't want you toexplain anything to Owen.""You haven't yet told me what you do want."She hesitated, conscious of the difficulty of justifying herrequest; then: "I want you to speak to Sophy," she said.
　　Darrow broke into an incredulous laugh. "Considering whatmy previous attempts have resulted in----!"She raised her eyes quickly. "They haven't, at least,resulted in your liking her less, in your thinking less wellof her than you've told me?"She fancied he frowned a little. "I wonder why you go backto that?""I want to be sure--I owe it to Owen. Won't you tell me theexact impression she's produced on you?""I have told you--I like Miss Viner.""Do you still believe she's in love with Owen?""There was nothing in our short talks to throw anyparticular light on that.""You still believe, though, that there's no reason why heshouldn't marry her?"Again he betrayed a restrained impatience. "How can Ianswer that without knowing her reasons for breaking withhim?""That's just what I want you to find out from her.""And why in the world should she tell me?""Because, whatever grievance she has against Owen, she cancertainly have none against me. She can't want to have Owenconnect me in his mind with this wretched quarrel; and shemust see that he will until he's convinced you've had noshare in it."Darrow's elbow dropped from the mantel-piece and he took arestless step or two across the room. Then he halted beforeher.
　　"Why can't you tell her this yourself?""Don't you see?"He eyed her intently, and she pressed on: "You must haveguessed that Owen's jealous of you.""Jealous of me?" The blood flew up under his brown skin.
　　"Blind with it--what else would drive him to this folly? AndI can't have her think me jealous too! I've said all Icould, short of making her think so; and she's refused aword more to either of us. Our only chance now is that sheshould listen to you--that you should make her see the harmher silence may do."Darrow uttered a protesting exclamation. "It's all toopreposterous--what you suggest! I can't, at any rate, appealto her on such a ground as that!"Anna laid her hand on his arm. "Appeal to her on the groundthat I'm almost Owen's mother, and that any estrangementbetween you and him would kill me. She knows what he is--she'll understand. Tell her to say anything, do anything,she wishes; but not to go away without speaking, not toleave THAT between us when she goes!"She drew back a step and lifted her face to his, trying tolook into his eyes more deeply than she had ever looked; butbefore she could discern what they expressed he had takenhold of her hands and bent his head to kiss them.
　　"You'll see her? You'll see her?" she entreated; and heanswered: "I'll do anything in the world you want me to."
Chapter 26

    No place could have been more distasteful as the scene ofthe talk that lay before him; but he had acceded to Anna'ssuggestion that it would seem more natural for her to summonSophy Viner than for him to go in search of her. As histroubled pacings carried him back and forth a relentlesshand seemed to be tearing away all the tender fibres ofassociation that bound him to the peaceful room. Here, inthis very place, he had drunk his deepest draughts ofhappiness, had had his lips at the fountain-head of itsoverflowing rivers; but now that source was poisoned and hewould taste no more of an untainted cup.
　　For a moment he felt an actual physical anguish; then hisnerves hardened for the coming struggle. He had no notionof what awaited him; but after the first instinctive recoilhe had seen in a flash the urgent need of another word withSophy Viner. He had been insincere in letting Anna thinkthat he had consented to speak because she asked it. Inreality he had been feverishly casting about for the pretextshe had given him; and for some reason this trivialhypocrisy weighed on him more than all his heavy burden ofdeceit.
　　At length he heard a step behind him and Sophy Vinerentered. When she saw him she paused on the threshold andhalf drew back.
　　"I was told that Mrs. Leath had sent for me.""Mrs. Leath DID send for you. She'll be here presently;but I asked her to let me see you first."He spoke very gently, and there was no insincerity in hisgentleness. He was profoundly moved by the change in thegirl's appearance. At sight of him she had forced a smile;but it lit up her wretchedness like a candle-flame held to adead face.
　　She made no reply, and Darrow went on: "You must understandmy wanting to speak to you, after what I was told just now."She interposed, with a gesture of protest: "I'm notresponsible for Owen's ravings!""Of course----". He broke off and they stood facing eachother. She lifted a hand and pushed back her loose lockwith the gesture that was burnt into his memory; then shelooked about her and dropped into the nearest chair.
　　"Well, you've got what you wanted," she said.
　　"What do you mean by what I wanted?""My engagement's broken--you heard me say so.""Why do you say that's what I wanted? All I wished, from thebeginning, was to advise you, to help you as best I could----""That's what you've done," she rejoined. "You've convincedme that it's best I shouldn't marry him."Darrow broke into a despairing laugh. "At the very momentwhen you'd convinced me to the contrary!""Had I?" Her smile flickered up. "Well, I really believedit till you showed me...warned me...""Warned you?""That I'd be miserable if I married a man I didn't love.""Don't you love him?"She made no answer, and Darrow started up and walked away tothe other end of the room. He stopped before the writing-table, where his photograph, well-dressed, handsome, self-sufficient--the portrait of a man of the world, confident ofhis ability to deal adequately with the most delicatesituations--offered its huge fatuity to his gaze. He turnedback to her. "It's rather hard on Owen, isn't it, that youshould have waited until now to tell him?"She reflected a moment before answering. "I told him assoon as I knew.""Knew that you couldn't marry him?""Knew that I could never live here with him." She lookedabout the room, as though the very walls must speak for her.
　　For a moment Darrow continued to search her faceperplexedly; then their eyes met in a long disastrous gaze.
　　"Yes----" she said, and stood up.
　　Below the window they heard Effie whistling for her dogs,and then, from the terrace, her mother calling her.
　　"There--THAT for instance," Sophy Viner said.
　　Darrow broke out: "It's I who ought to go!"She kept her small pale smile. "What good would that do anyof us--now?"He covered his face with his hands. "Good God!" he groaned.
　　"How could I tell?""You couldn't tell. We neither of us could." She seemed toturn the problem over critically. "After all, it might havebeen YOU instead of me!"He took another distracted turn about the room and comingback to her sat down in a chair at her side. A mocking handseemed to dash the words from his lips. There was nothing onearth that he could say to her that wasn't foolish or cruelor contemptible...
　　"My dear," he began at last, "oughtn't you, at any rate, totry?"Her gaze grew grave. "Try to forget you?"He flushed to the forehead. "I meant, try to give Owen moretime; to give him a chance. He's madly in love with you;all the good that's in him is in your hands. His step-motherfelt that from the first. And she thought--she believed----""She thought I could make him happy. Would she think sonow?""Now...? I don't say now. But later? Time modifies...rubsout...more quickly than you think...Go away, but let himhope...I'm going too--WE'RE going--" he stumbled on theplural--"in a very few weeks: going for a long time,probably. What you're thinking of now may never happen. Wemay not all be here together again for years."She heard him out in silence, her hands clasped on her knee,her eyes bent on them. "For me," she said, "you'll alwaysbe here.""Don't say that--oh, don't! Things change...peoplechange...You'll see!""You don't understand. I don't want anything to change. Idon't want to forget--to rub out. At first I imagined Idid; but that was a foolish mistake. As soon as I saw youagain I knew it...It's not being here with you that I'mafraid of--in the sense you think. It's being here, oranywhere, with Owen." She stood up and bent her tragic smileon him. "I want to keep you all to myself."The only words that came to him were futile denunciations ofhis folly; but the sense of their futility checked them onhis lips. "Poor child--you poor child!" he heard himselfvainly repeating.
　　Suddenly he felt the strong reaction of reality and itsimpetus brought him to his feet. "Whatever happens, Iintend to go--to go for good," he exclaimed. "I want you tounderstand that. Oh, don't be afraid--I'll find a reason.
　　But it's perfectly clear that I must go."She uttered a protesting cry. "Go away? You? Don't you seethat that would tell everything--drag everybody into thehorror?"He found no answer, and her voice dropped back to its calmernote. "What good would your going do? Do you suppose itwould change anything for me?" She looked at him with amusing wistfulness. "I wonder what your feeling for me was?
　　It seems queer that I've never really known--I suppose weDON'T know much about that kind of feeling. Is it liketaking a drink when you're thirsty?...I used to feel as ifall of me was in the palm of your hand..."He bowed his humbled head, but she went on almostexultantly: "Don't for a minute think I'm sorry! It wasworth every penny it cost. My mistake was in being ashamed,just at first, of its having cost such a lot. I tried tocarry it off as a joke--to talk of it to myself as an'adventure'. I'd always wanted adventures, and you'd givenme one, and I tried to take your attitude about it, to 'playthe game' and convince myself that I hadn't risked any moreon it than you. Then, when I met you again, I suddenly sawthat I HAD risked more, but that I'd won more, too--suchworlds! I'd been trying all the while to put everything Icould between us; now I want to sweep everything away. I'dbeen trying to forget how you looked; now I want to rememberyou always. I'd been trying not to hear your voice; now Inever want to hear any other. I've made my choice--that'sall: I've had you and I mean to keep you." Her face wasshining like her eyes. "To keep you hidden away here," sheended, and put her hand upon her breast.
　　After she had left him, Darrow continued to sit motionless,staring back into their past. Hitherto it had lingered onthe edge of his mind in a vague pink blur, like one of thelittle rose-leaf clouds that a setting sun drops from itsdisk. Now it was a huge looming darkness, through which hiseyes vainly strained. The whole episode was still obscureto him, save where here and there, as they talked, somephrase or gesture or intonation of the girl's had lit up alittle spot in the night.
　　She had said: "I wonder what your feeling for me was?" andhe found himself wondering too...He remembered distinctlyenough that he had not meant the perilous passion--even inits most transient form--to play a part in their relation.
　　In that respect his attitude had been above reproach. Shewas an unusually original and attractive creature, to whomhe had wanted to give a few days of harmless pleasuring, andwho was alert and expert enough to understand his intentionand spare him the boredom of hesitations andmisinterpretations. That had been his first impression, andher subsequent demeanour had justified it. She had been,from the outset, just the frank and easy comrade he hadexpected to find her. Was it he, then, who, in the sequel,had grown impatient of the bounds he had set himself? Was ithis wounded vanity that, seeking balm for its hurt, yearnedto dip deeper into the healing pool of her compassion? Inhis confused memory of the situation he seemed not to havebeen guiltless of such yearnings...Yet for the first fewdays the experiment had been perfectly successful. Herenjoyment had been unclouded and his pleasure in itundisturbed. It was very gradually--he seemed to see--thata shade of lassitude had crept over their intercourse.
　　Perhaps it was because, when her light chatter about peoplefailed, he found she had no other fund to draw on, orperhaps simply because of the sweetness of her laugh, or ofthe charm of the gesture with which, one day in the woods ofMarly, she had tossed off her hat and tilted back her headat the call of a cuckoo; or because, whenever he looked ather unexpectedly, he found that she was looking at him anddid not want him to know it; or perhaps, in varying degrees,because of all these things, that there had come a momentwhen no word seemed to fly high enough or dive deep enoughto utter the sense of well-being each gave to the other, andthe natural substitute for speech had been a kiss.
　　The kiss, at all events, had come at the precise moment tosave their venture from disaster. They had reached thepoint when her amazing reminiscences had begun to flag, whenher future had been exhaustively discussed, her theatricalprospects minutely studied, her quarrel with Mrs. Murrettretold with the last amplification of detail, and when,perhaps conscious of her exhausted resources and hisdwindling interest, she had committed the fatal error ofsaying that she could see he was unhappy, and entreating himto tell her why...
　　From the brink of estranging confidences, and from the riskof unfavourable comparisons, his gesture had snatched herback to safety; and as soon as he had kissed her he feltthat she would never bore him again. She was one of theelemental creatures whose emotion is all in their pulses,and who become inexpressive or sentimental when they try toturn sensation into speech. His caress had restored her toher natural place in the scheme of things, and Darrow feltas if he had clasped a tree and a nymph had bloomed fromit...
　　The mere fact of not having to listen to her any longeradded immensely to her charm. She continued, of course, totalk to him, but it didn't matter, because he no longer madeany effort to follow her words, but let her voice run on asa musical undercurrent to his thoughts.
　　She hadn't a drop of poetry in her, but she had some of thequalities that create it in others; and in moments of heatthe imagination does not always feel the difference...
　　Lying beside her in the shade, Darrow felt her presence as apart of the charmed stillness of the summer woods, as theelement of vague well-being that suffused his senses andlulled to sleep the ache of wounded pride. All he asked ofher, as yet, was a touch on the hand or on the lips--andthat she should let him go on lying there through the longwarm hours, while a black-bird's song throbbed like afountain, and the summer wind stirred in the trees, andclose by, between the nearest branches and the brim of histilted hat, a slight white figure gathered up all thefloating threads of joy...
　　He recalled, too, having noticed, as he lay staring at abreak in the tree-tops, a stream of mares'-tails coming upthe sky. He had said to himself: "It will rain to-morrow,"and the thought had made the air seem warmer and the sunmore vivid on her hair...Perhaps if the mares'-tails had notcome up the sky their adventure might have had no sequel.
　　But the cloud brought rain, and next morning he looked outof his window into a cold grey blur. They had planned anall-day excursion down the Seine, to the two Andelys andRouen, and now, with the long hours on their hands, theywere both a little at a loss...There was the Louvre, ofcourse, and the Luxembourg; but he had tried looking atpictures with her, she had first so persistently admired theworst things, and then so frankly lapsed into indifference,that he had no wish to repeat the experiment. So they wentout, aimlessly, and took a cold wet walk, turning at lengthinto the deserted arcades of the Palais Royal, and finallydrifting into one of its equally deserted restaurants, wherethey lunched alone and somewhat dolefully, served by a wanold waiter with the look of a castaway who has given upwatching for a sail...It was odd how the waiter's face cameback to him...
　　Perhaps but for the rain it might never have happened; butwhat was the use of thinking of that now? He tried to turnhis thoughts to more urgent issues; but, by a strangeperversity of association, every detail of the day wasforcing itself on his mind with an insistence from whichthere was no escape. Reluctantly he relived the long wetwalk back to the hotel, after a tedious hour at acinematograph show on the Boulevard. It was still rainingwhen they withdrew from this stale spectacle, but she hadobstinately refused to take a cab, had even, on the way,insisted on loitering under the dripping awnings of shop-windows and poking into draughty passages, and finally, whenthey had nearly reached their destination, had gone so faras to suggest that they should turn back to hunt up someshow she had heard of in a theatre at the Batignolles. Butat that he had somewhat irritably protested: he rememberedthat, for the first time, they were both rather irritable,and vaguely disposed to resist one another's suggestions.
　　His feet were wet, and he was tired of walking, and sick ofthe smell of stuffy unaired theatres, and he had said hemust really get back to write some letters--and so they hadkept on to the hotel...
Chapter 27
    Darrow had no idea how long he had sat there when he heardAnna's hand on the door. The effort of rising, and ofcomposing his face to meet her, gave him a factitious senseof self-control. He said to himself: "I must decide onsomething----" and that lifted him a hair's breadth abovethe whirling waters.
　　She came in with a lighter step, and he instantly perceivedthat something unforeseen and reassuring had happened.
　　"She's been with me. She came and found me on the terrace.
　　We've had a long talk and she's explained everything. Ifeel as if I'd never known her before!"Her voice was so moved and tender that it checked his startof apprehension.
　　"She's explained----?""It's natural, isn't it, that she should have felt a littlesore at the kind of inspection she's been subjected to? Oh,not from you--I don't mean that! But Madame de Chantelle'sopposition--and her sending for Adelaide Painter! She toldme frankly she didn't care to owe her husband to AdelaidePainter...She thinks now that her annoyance at feelingherself so talked over and scrutinized may have shown itselfin her manner to Owen, and set him imagining the insanethings he did...I understand all she must have felt, and Iagree with her that it's best she should go away for awhile. She's made me," Anna summed up, "feel as if I'd beendreadfully thick-skinned and obtuse!""YOU?""Yes. As if I'd treated her like the bric-a-brac that usedto be sent down here 'on approval,' to see if it would lookwell with the other pieces." She added, with a sudden flushof enthusiasm: "I'm glad she's got it in her to make onefeel like that!"She seemed to wait for Darrow to agree with her, or to putsome other question, and he finally found voice to ask:
　　"Then you think it's not a final break?""I hope not--I've never hoped it more! I had a word withOwen, too, after I left her, and I think he understands thathe must let her go without insisting on any positivepromise. She's excited...he must let her calm down..."Again she waited, and Darrow said: "Surely you can make himsee that.""She'll help me to--she's to see him, of course, before shegoes. She starts immediately, by the way, with AdelaidePainter, who is motoring over to Francheuil to catch the oneo'clock express--and who, of course, knows nothing of allthis, and is simply to be told that Sophy has been sent forby the Farlows."Darrow mutely signed his comprehension, and she went on:
　　"Owen is particularly anxious that neither Adelaide nor hisgrandmother should have the least inkling of what'shappened. The need of shielding Sophy will help him tocontrol himself. He's coming to his senses, poor boy; he'sashamed of his wild talk already. He asked me to tell youso; no doubt he'll tell you so himself."Darrow made a movement of protest. "Oh, as to that--thething's not worth another word.""Or another thought, either?" She brightened. "Promise meyou won't even think of it--promise me you won't be hard onhim!"He was finding it easier to smile back at her. "Why shouldyou think it necessary to ask my indulgence for Owen?"She hesitated a moment, her eyes wandering from him. Thenthey came back with a smile. "Perhaps because I need it formyself.""For yourself?""I mean, because I understand better how one can tortureone's self over unrealities."As Darrow listened, the tension of his nerves began torelax. Her gaze, so grave and yet so sweet, was like a deeppool into which he could plunge and hide himself from thehard glare of his misery. As this ecstatic sense envelopedhim he found it more and more difficult to follow her wordsand to frame an answer; but what did anything matter, exceptthat her voice should go on, and the syllables fall likesoft touches on his tortured brain?
　　"Don't you know," she continued, "the bliss of waking from abad dream in one's own quiet room, and going slowly over allthe horror without being afraid of it any more? That's whatI'm doing now. And that's why I understand Owen..." Shebroke off, and he felt her touch on his arm. "BECAUSEI'D DREAMED THE HORROR TOO!"He understood her then, and stammered: "You?""Forgive me! And let me tell you!...It will help you tounderstand Owen...There WERE little things...littlesigns...once I had begun to watch for them: your reluctanceto speak about her...her reserve with you...a sort ofconstraint we'd never seen in her before..."She laughed up at him, and with her hands in his hecontrived to say: "NOW you understand why?""Oh, I understand; of course I understand; and I want you tolaugh at me--with me! Because there were other thingstoo...crazier things still...There was even--last night onthe terrace--her pink cloak...""Her pink cloak?" Now he honestly wondered, and as she sawit she blushed.
　　"You've forgotten about the cloak? The pink cloak that Owensaw you with at the play in Paris? Yes...yes...I was madenough for that!...It does me good to laugh about it now!
　　But you ought to know that I'm going to be a jealouswoman...a ridiculously jealous woman...you ought to bewarned of it in time..."He had dropped her hands, and she leaned close and liftedher arms to his neck with one of her rare gestures ofsurrender.
　　"I don't know why it is; but it makes me happier now to havebeen so foolish!"Her lips were parted in a noiseless laugh and the tremor ofher lashes made their shadow move on her cheek. He lookedat her through a mist of pain and saw all her offered beautyheld up like a cup to his lips; but as he stooped to it adarkness seemed to fall between them, her arms slipped fromhis shoulders and she drew away from him abruptly.
　　"But she WAS with you, then?" she exclaimed; and then,as he stared at her: "Oh, don't say no! Only go and look atyour eyes!"He stood speechless, and she pressed on: "Don't deny it--oh,don't deny it! What will be left for me to imagine if youdo? Don't you see how every single thing cries it out? Owensees it--he saw it again just now! When I told him she'drelented, and would see him, he said: 'Is that Darrow'sdoing too?'"Darrow took the onslaught in silence. He might have spoken,have summoned up the usual phrases of banter and denial; hewas not even certain that they might not, for the moment,have served their purpose if he could have uttered themwithout being seen. But he was as conscious of what hadhappened to his face as if he had obeyed Anna's bidding andlooked at himself in the glass. He knew he could no morehide from her what was written there than he could effacefrom his soul the fiery record of what he had just livedthrough. There before him, staring him in the eyes, andreflecting itself in all his lineaments, was theoverwhelming fact of Sophy Viner's passion and of the act bywhich she had attested it.
　　Anna was talking again, hurriedly, feverishly, and his soulwas wrung by the anguish in her voice. "Do speak at last--you must speak! I don't want to ask you to harm the girl;but you must see that your silence is doing her more harmthan your answering my questions could. You're leaving meonly the worst things to think of her...she'd see thatherself if she were here. What worse injury can you do herthan to make me hate her--to make me feel she's plotted withyou to deceive us?""Oh, not that!" Darrow heard his own voice before he wasaware that he meant to speak. "Yes; I did see her inParis," he went on after a pause; "but I was bound torespect her reason for not wanting it known."Anna paled. "It was she at the theatre that night?""I was with her at the theatre one night.""Why should she have asked you not to say so?""She didn't wish it known that I'd met her.""Why shouldn't she have wished it known?""She had quarrelled with Mrs. Murrett and come over suddenlyto Paris, and she didn't want the Farlows to hear of it. Icame across her by accident, and she asked me not to speakof having seen her.""Because of her quarrel? Because she was ashamed of her partin it?""Oh, no. There was nothing for her to be ashamed of. Butthe Farlows had found the place for her, and she didn't wantthem to know how suddenly she'd had to leave, and how badlyMrs. Murrett had behaved. She was in a terrible plight--thewoman had even kept back her month's salary. She knew theFarlows would be awfully upset, and she wanted more time toprepare them."Darrow heard himself speak as though the words had proceededfrom other lips. His explanation sounded plausible enough,and he half-fancied Anna's look grew lighter. She waited amoment, as though to be sure he had no more to add; then shesaid: "But the Farlows DID know; they told me all aboutit when they sent her to me."He flushed as if she had laid a deliberate trap for him.
　　"They may know NOW; they didn't then----""That's no reason for her continuing now to make a mysteryof having met you.""It's the only reason I can give you.""Then I'll go and ask her for one myself." She turned andtook a few steps toward the door.
　　"Anna!" He started to follow her, and then checked himself.
　　"Don't do that!""Why not?""It's not like you...not generous..."She stood before him straight and pale, but under her rigidface he saw the tumult of her doubt and misery.
　　"I don't want to be ungenerous; I don't want to pry into hersecrets. But things can't be left like this. Wouldn't it bebetter for me to go to her? Surely she'll understand--she'llexplain...It may be some mere trifle she's concealing:
　　something that would horrify the Farlows, but that Ishouldn't see any harm in..." She paused, her eyessearching his face. "A love affair, I suppose...that's it?
　　You met her with some man at the theatre--and she wasfrightened and begged you to fib about it? Those poor youngthings that have to go about among us like machines--oh, ifyou knew how I pity them!""If you pity her, why not let her go?"She stared. "Let her go--go for good, you mean? Is that thebest you can say for her?""Let things take their course. After all, it's betweenherself and Owen.""And you and me--and Effie, if Owen marries her, and I leavemy child with them! Don't you see the impossibility of whatyou're asking? We're all bound together in this coil."Darrow turned away with a groan. "Oh, let her go--let hergo.""Then there IS something--something really bad? SheWAS with some one when you met her? Some one with whom shewas----" She broke off, and he saw her struggling with newthoughts. "If it's THAT, of course...Oh, don't yousee," she desperately appealed to him, "that I must findout, and that it's too late now for you not to speak? Don'tbe afraid that I'll betray you...I'll never, never let asoul suspect. But I must know the truth, and surely it'sbest for her that I should find it out from you."Darrow waited a moment; then he said slowly: "What youimagine's mere madness. She was at the theatre with me.""With you?" He saw a tremor pass through her, but shecontrolled it instantly and faced him straight andmotionless as a wounded creature in the moment before itfeels its wound. "Why should you both have made a mysteryof that?""I've told you the idea was not mine." He cast about. "Shemay have been afraid that Owen----""But that was not a reason for her asking you to tell methat you hardly knew her--that you hadn't even seen her foryears." She broke off and the blood rose to her face andforehead. "Even if SHE had other reasons, there couldbe only one reason for your obeying her----"Silence fell between them, a silence in which the roomseemed to become suddenly resonant with voices. Darrow'sgaze wandered to the window and he noticed that the gale oftwo days before had nearly stripped the tops of the lime-trees in the court. Anna had moved away and was resting herelbows against the mantel-piece, her head in her hands. Asshe stood there he took in with a new intensity of visionlittle details of her appearance that his eyes had oftencherished: the branching blue veins in the backs of herhands, the warm shadow that her hair cast on her ear, andthe colour of the hair itself, dull black with a tawnyunder-surface, like the wings of certain birds. He felt itto be useless to speak.
　　After a while she lifted her head and said: "I shall not seeher again before she goes."He made no answer, and turning to him she added: "That iswhy she's going, I suppose? Because she loves you and won'tgive you up?"Darrow waited. The paltriness of conventional denial was soapparent to him that even if it could have delayed discoveryhe could no longer have resorted to it. Under all his otherfears was the dread of dishonouring the hour.
　　"She HAS given me up," he said at last.
Chapter 28
    When he had gone out of the room Anna stood where he hadleft her. "I must believe him! I must believe him!" shesaid.
　　A moment before, at the moment when she had lifted her armsto his neck, she had been wrapped in a sense of completesecurity. All the spirits of doubt had been exorcised, andher love was once more the clear habitation in which everythought and feeling could move in blissful freedom. Andthen, as she raised her face to Darrow's and met his eyes,she had seemed to look into the very ruins of his soul.
　　That was the only way she could express it. It was asthough he and she had been looking at two sides of the samething, and the side she had seen had been all light andlife, and his a place of graves...
　　She didn't now recall who had spoken first, or even, veryclearly, what had been said. It seemed to her only a momentlater that she had found herself standing at the other endof the room--the room which had suddenly grown so smallthat, even with its length between them, she felt as if hetouched her--crying out to him "It IS because of youshe's going!" and reading the avowal in his face.
　　That was his secret, then, THEIR secret: he had met thegirl in Paris and helped her in her straits--lent her money,Anna vaguely conjectured--and she had fallen in love withhim, and on meeting him again had been suddenly overmasteredby her passion. Anna, dropping back into her sofa-corner,sat staring these facts in the face.
　　The girl had been in a desperate plight--frightened,penniless, outraged by what had happened, and not knowing(with a woman like Mrs. Murrett) what fresh injury mightimpend; and Darrow, meeting her in this distracted hour, hadpitied, counselled, been kind to her, with the fatal, theinevitable result. There were the facts as Anna made themout: that, at least, was their external aspect, was as muchof them as she had been suffered to see; and into the secretintricacies they might cover she dared not yet project herthoughts.
　　"I must believe him...I must believe him..." She kept onrepeating the words like a talisman. It was natural, afterall, that he should have behaved as he had: defended thegirl's piteous secret to the last. She too began to feel thecontagion of his pity--the stir, in her breast, of feelingsdeeper and more native to her than the pains of jealousy.
　　From the security of her blessedness she longed to lean overwith compassionate hands...But Owen? What was Owen's part tobe? She owed herself first to him--she was bound to protecthim not only from all knowledge of the secret she hadsurprised, but also--and chiefly!--from its consequences.
　　Yes: the girl must go--there could be no doubt of it--Darrowhimself had seen it from the first; and at the thought shehad a wild revulsion of relief, as though she had beentrying to create in her heart the delusion of a generosityshe could not feel...
　　The one fact on which she could stay her mind was that Sophywas leaving immediately; would be out of the house within anhour. Once she was gone, it would be easier to bring Owento the point of understanding that the break was final; ifnecessary, to work upon the girl to make him see it. Butthat, Anna was sure, would not be necessary. It was clearthat Sophy Viner was leaving Givre with no thought of everseeing it again...
　　Suddenly, as she tried to put some order in her thoughts,she heard Owen's call at the door: "Mother!----" a name heseldom gave her. There was a new note in his voice: thenote of a joyous impatience. It made her turn hastily tothe glass to see what face she was about to show him; butbefore she had had time to compose it he was in the room andshe was caught in a school-boy hug.
　　"It's all right! It's all right! And it's all your doing! Iwant to do the worst kind of penance--bell and candle andthe rest. I've been through it with HER, and now shehands me on to you, and you're to call me any names youplease." He freed her with his happy laugh. "I'm to bestood in the corner till next week, and then I'm to go up tosee her. And she says I owe it all to you!""To me?" It was the first phrase she found to clutch at asshe tried to steady herself in the eddies of his joy.
　　"Yes: you were so patient, and so dear to her; and you sawat once what a damned ass I'd been!" She tried a smile, andit seemed to pass muster with him, for he sent it back in abroad beam. "That's not so difficult to see? No, I admit itdoesn't take a microscope. But you were so wise andwonderful--you always are. I've been mad these last days,simply mad--you and she might well have washed your hands ofme! And instead, it's all right--all right!"She drew back a little, trying to keep the smile on her lipsand not let him get the least glimpse of what it hid. Nowif ever, indeed, it behoved her to be wise and wonderful!
　　"I'm so glad, dear; so glad. If only you'll always feellike that about me..." She stopped, hardly knowing what shesaid, and aghast at the idea that her own hands should haveretied the knot she imagined to be broken. But she saw hehad something more to say; something hard to get out, butabsolutely necessary to express. He caught her hands,pulled her close, and, with his forehead drawn into itswhimsical smiling wrinkles, "Look here," he cried, "ifDarrow wants to call me a damned ass too you're not to stophim!"It brought her back to a sharper sense of her central peril:
　　of the secret to be kept from him at whatever cost to herracked nerves.
　　"Oh, you know, he doesn't always wait for orders!" On thewhole it sounded better than she'd feared.
　　"You mean he's called me one already?" He accepted the factwith his gayest laugh. "Well, that saves a lot of trouble;now we can pass to the order of the day----" he broke offand glanced at the clock--"which is, you know, dear, thatshe's starting in about an hour; she and Adelaide mustalready be snatching a hasty sandwich. You'll come down tobid them good-bye?""Yes--of course."There had, in fact, grown upon her while he spoke theurgency of seeing Sophy Viner again before she left. Thethought was deeply distasteful: Anna shrank fromencountering the girl till she had cleared a way through herown perplexities. But it was obvious that since they hadseparated, barely an hour earlier, the situation had taken anew shape. Sophy Viner had apparently reconsidered herdecision to break amicably but definitely with Owen, andstood again in their path, a menace and a mystery; andconfused impulses of resistance stirred in Anna's mind.
　　She felt Owen's touch on her arm. "Are you coming?""Yes...yes...presently.""What's the matter? You look so strange.""What do you mean by strange?""I don't know: startled--surprised " She read what her lookmust be by its sudden reflection in his face.
　　"Do I? No wonder! You've given us all an exciting morning."He held to his point. "You're more excited now that there'sno cause for it. What on earth has happened since I sawyou?"He looked about the room, as if seeking the clue to heragitation, and in her dread of what he might guess sheanswered: "What has happened is simply that I'm rathertired. Will you ask Sophy to come up and see me here?"While she waited she tried to think what she should say whenthe girl appeared; but she had never been more conscious ofher inability to deal with the oblique and the tortuous.
　　She had lacked the hard teachings of experience, and aninstinctive disdain for whatever was less clear and openthan her own conscience had kept her from learning anythingof the intricacies and contradictions of other hearts. Shesaid to herself: "I must find out----" yet everything in herrecoiled from the means by which she felt it must be done...
　　Sophy Viner appeared almost immediately, dressed fordeparture, her little bag on her arm. She was still pale tothe point of haggardness, but with a light upon her thatstruck Anna with surprise. Or was it, perhaps, that she waslooking at the girl with new eyes: seeing her, for the firsttime, not as Effie's governess, not as Owen's bride, but asthe embodiment of that unknown peril lurking in thebackground of every woman's thoughts about her lover? Anna,at any rate, with a sudden sense of estrangement, noted inher graces and snares never before perceived. It was onlythe flash of a primitive instinct, but it lasted long enoughto make her ashamed of the darknesses it lit up in herheart...
　　She signed to Sophy to sit down on the sofa beside her. "Iasked you to come up to me because I wanted to say good-byequietly," she explained, feeling her lips tremble, buttrying to speak in a tone of friendly naturalness.
　　The girl's only answer was a faint smile of acquiescence,and Anna, disconcerted by her silence, went on: "You'vedecided, then, not to break your engagement?"Sophy Viner raised her head with a look of surprise.
　　Evidently the question, thus abruptly put, must have soundedstrangely on the lips of so ardent a partisan as Mrs. Leath!
　　"I thought that was what you wished," she said.
　　"What I wished?" Anna's heart shook against her side. "Iwish, of course, whatever seems best for Owen...It'snatural, you must understand, that that consideration shouldcome first with me..."Sophy was looking at her steadily. "I supposed it was theonly one that counted with you."The curtness of retort roused Anna's latent antagonism. "Itis," she said, in a hard voice that startled her as sheheard it. Had she ever spoken so to any one before? Shefelt frightened, as though her very nature had changedwithout her knowing it...Feeling the girl's astonished gazestill on her, she continued: "The suddenness of the changehas naturally surprised me. When I left you it wasunderstood that you were to reserve your decision----""Yes.""And now----?" Anna waited for a reply that did not come.
　　She did not understand the girl's attitude, the edge ofirony in her short syllables, the plainly premeditateddetermination to lay the burden of proof on herinterlocutor. Anna felt the sudden need to lift theirintercourse above this mean level of defiance and distrust.
　　She looked appealingly at Sophy.
　　"Isn't it best that we should speak quite frankly? It's thischange on your part that perplexes me. You can hardly besurprised at that. It's true, I asked you not to break withOwen too abruptly--and I asked it, believe me, as much foryour sake as for his: I wanted you to take time to thinkover the difficulty that seems to have arisen between you.
　　The fact that you felt it required thinking over seemed toshow you wouldn't take the final step lightly--wouldn't, Imean, accept of Owen more than you could give him. But yourchange of mind obliges me to ask the question I thought youwould have asked yourself. Is there any reason why youshouldn't marry Owen?"She stopped a little breathlessly, her eyes on Sophy Viner'sburning face. "Any reason----? What do you mean by areason?"Anna continued to look at her gravely. "Do you love someone else?" she asked.
　　Sophy's first look was one of wonder and a faint relief;then she gave back the other's scrutiny in a glance ofindescribable reproach. "Ah, you might have waited!" sheexclaimed.
　　"Waited?""Till I'd gone: till I was out of the house. You might haveknown...you might have guessed..." She turned her eyesagain on Anna. "I only meant to let him hope a littlelonger, so that he shouldn't suspect anything; of course Ican't marry him," she said.
　　Anna stood motionless, silenced by the shock of the avowal.
　　She too was trembling, less with anger than with a confusedcompassion. But the feeling was so blent with others, lessgenerous and more obscure, that she found no words toexpress it, and the two women faced each other withoutspeaking.
　　"I'd better go," Sophy murmured at length with lowered head.
　　The words roused in Anna a latent impulse of compunction.
　　The girl looked so young, so exposed and desolate! And whatthoughts must she be hiding in her heart! It was impossiblethat they should part in such a spirit.
　　"I want you to know that no one said anything...It was Iwho..."Sophy looked at her. "You mean that Mr. Darrow didn't tellyou? Of course not: do you suppose I thought he did? Youfound it out, that's all--I knew you would. In your place Ishould have guessed it sooner."The words were spoken simply, without irony or emphasis; butthey went through Anna like a sword. Yes, the girl wouldhave had divinations, promptings that she had not had! Shefelt half envious of such a sad precocity of wisdom.
　　"I'm so sorry...so sorry..." she murmured.
　　"Things happen that way. Now I'd better go. I'd like tosay good-bye to Effie.""Oh----" it broke in a cry from Effie's mother. "Not likethis--you mustn't! I feel--you make me feel too horribly: asif I were driving you away..." The words had rushed up fromthe depths of her bewildered pity.
　　"No one is driving me away: I had to go," she heard the girlreply.
　　There was another silence, during which passionate impulsesof magnanimity warred in Anna with her doubts and dreads.
　　At length, her eyes on Sophy's face: "Yes, you must go now,"she began; "but later on...after a while, when all this isover...if there's no reason why you shouldn't marry Owen----" she paused a moment on the words--" I shouldn't want youto think I stood between you...""You?" Sophy flushed again, and then grew pale. She seemedto try to speak, but no words came.
　　"Yes! It was not true when I said just now that I wasthinking only of Owen. I'm sorry--oh, so sorry!--for youtoo. Your life--I know how hard it's been; andmine...mine's so full...Happy women understand best!" Annadrew near and touched the girl's hand; then she began again,pouring all her soul into the broken phrases: "It's terriblenow...you see no future; but if, by and bye...you knowbest...but you're so young...and at your age things DOpass. If there's no reason, no real reason, why youshouldn't marry Owen, I WANT him to hope, I'll help himto hope...if you say so..."With the urgency of her pleading her clasp tightened onSophy's hand, but it warmed to no responsive tremor: thegirl seemed numb, and Anna was frightened by the stonysilence of her look. "I suppose I'm not more than half awoman," she mused, "for I don't want my happiness to hurther;" and aloud she repeated: "If only you'll tell methere's no reason----"The girl did not speak; but suddenly, like a snapped branch,she bent, stooped down to the hand that clasped her, andlaid her lips upon it in a stream of weeping. She criedsilently, continuously, abundantly, as though Anna's touchhad released the waters of some deep spring of pain; then,as Anna, moved and half afraid, leaned over her with a soundof pity, she stood up and turned away.
　　"You're going, then--for good--like this?" Anna movedtoward her and stopped. Sophy stopped too, with eyes thatshrank from her.
　　"Oh----" Anna cried, and hid her face.
　　The girl walked across the room and paused again in thedoorway. From there she flung back: "I wanted it--I choseit. He was good to me--no one ever was so good!"The door-handle turned, and Anna heard her go.
Chapter 29
    Her first thought was: "He's going too in a few hours--Ineedn't see him again before he leaves..." At that momentthe possibility of having to look in Darrow's face and hearhim speak seemed to her more unendurable than anything elseshe could imagine. Then, on the next wave of feeling, camethe desire to confront him at once and wring from him sheknew not what: avowal, denial, justification, anything thatshould open some channel of escape to the flood of her pent-up anguish.
　　She had told Owen she was tired, and this seemed asufficient reason for remaining upstairs when the motor cameto the door and Miss Painter and Sophy Viner were borne offin it; sufficient also for sending word to Madame deChantelle that she would not come down till after luncheon.
　　Having despatched her maid with this message, she lay downon her sofa and stared before her into darkness...
　　She had been unhappy before, and the vision of old miseriesflocked like hungry ghosts about her fresh pain: sherecalled her youthful disappointment, the failure of hermarriage, the wasted years that followed; but those werenegative sorrows, denials and postponements of life. Sheseemed in no way related to their shadowy victim, she whowas stretched on this fiery rack of the irreparable. Shehad suffered before--yes, but lucidly, reflectively,elegiacally: now she was suffering as a hurt animal must,blindly, furiously, with the single fierce animal longingthat the awful pain should stop...
　　She heard her maid knock, and she hid her face and made noanswer. The knocking continued, and the discipline of habitat length made her lift her head, compose her face and holdout her hand to the note the woman brought her. It was aword from Darrow--"May I see you?"--and she said at once, ina voice that sounded thin and empty: "Ask Mr. Darrow to comeup."The maid enquired if she wished to have her hair smoothedfirst, and she answered that it didn't matter; but when thedoor had closed, the instinct of pride drew her to her feetand she looked at herself in the glass above the mantelpieceand passed her hands over her hair. Her eyes were burningand her face looked tired and thinner; otherwise she couldsee no change in her appearance, and she wondered that atsuch a moment her body should seem as unrelated to the selfthat writhed within her as if it had been a statue or apicture.
　　The maid reopened the door to show in Darrow, and he pauseda moment on the threshold, as if waiting for Anna to speak.
　　He was extremely pale, but he looked neither ashamed noruncertain, and she said to herself, with a perverse thrillof appreciation: "He's as proud as I am."Aloud she asked: "You wanted to see me?""Naturally," he replied in a grave voice.
　　"Don't! It's useless. I know everything. Nothing you cansay will help."At the direct affirmation he turned even paler, and hiseyes, which he kept resolutely fixed on her, confessed hismisery.
　　"You allow me no voice in deciding that?""Deciding what?""That there's nothing more to be said?" He waited for her toanswer, and then went on: "I don't even know what you meanby 'everything'.""Oh, I don't know what more there is! I know enough. Iimplored her to deny it, and she couldn't...What can you andI have to say to each other?" Her voice broke into a sob.
　　The animal anguish was upon her again--just a blind cryagainst her pain!
　　Darrow kept his head high and his eyes steady. "It must beas you wish; and yet it's not like you to be afraid.""Afraid?""To talk things out--to face them.""It's for YOU to face this--not me!""All I ask is to face it--but with you." Once more hepaused. "Won't you tell me what Miss Viner told you?""Oh, she's generous--to the utmost!" The pain caught herlike a physical throe. It suddenly came to her how the girlmust have loved him to be so generous--what memories theremust be between them!
　　"Oh, go, please go. It's too horrible. Why should I haveto see you?" she stammered, lifting her hands to her eyes.
　　With her face hidden she waited to hear him move away, tohear the door open and close again, as, a few hours earlier,it had opened and closed on Sophy Viner. But Darrow made nosound or movement: he too was waiting. Anna felt a thrillof resentment: his presence was an outrage on her sorrow, ahumiliation to her pride. It was strange that he shouldwait for her to tell him so!
　　"You want me to leave Givre?" he asked at length. She madeno answer, and he went on: "Of course I'll do as you wish;but if I go now am I not to see you again?"His voice was firm: his pride was answering her pride!
　　She faltered: "You must see it's useless----""I might remind you that you're dismissing me without ahearing----""Without a hearing? I've heard you both!"----"but I won't," he continued, "remind you of that, or ofanything or any one but Owen.""Owen?""Yes; if we could somehow spare him----"She had dropped her hands and turned her startled eyes onhim. It seemed to her an age since she had thought of Owen!
　　"You see, don't you," Darrow continued, "that if you send meaway now----"She interrupted: "Yes, I see----" and there was a longsilence between them. At length she said, very low: "Idon't want any one else to suffer as I'm suffering...""Owen knows I meant to leave tomorrow," Darrow went on. "Anysudden change of plan may make him think..."Oh, she saw his inevitable logic: the horror of it was onevery side of her! It had seemed possible to control hergrief and face Darrow calmly while she was upheld by thebelief that this was their last hour together, that after hehad passed out of the room there would be no fear of seeinghim again, no fear that his nearness, his look, his voice,and all the unseen influences that flowed from him, woulddissolve her soul to weakness. But her courage failed at theidea of having to conspire with him to shield Owen, ofkeeping up with him, for Owen's sake, a feint of union andfelicity. To live at Darrow's side in seeming intimacy andharmony for another twenty-four hours seemed harder than tolive without him for all the rest of her days. Her strengthfailed her, and she threw herself down and buried her sobsin the cushions where she had so often hidden a face aglowwith happiness.
　　"Anna----" His voice was close to her. "Let me talk to youquietly. It's not worthy of either of us to be afraid."Words of endearment would have offended her; but her heartrose at the call to her courage.
　　"I've no defense to make," he went on. "The facts aremiserable enough; but at least I want you to see them asthey are. Above all, I want you to know the truth aboutMiss Viner----"The name sent the blood to Anna's forehead. She raised herhead and faced him. "Why should I know more of her thanwhat she's told me? I never wish to hear her name again!""It's because you feel about her in that way that I ask you--in the name of common charity--to let me give you the factsas they are, and not as you've probably imagined them.""I've told you I don't think uncharitably of her. I don'twant to think of her at all!""That's why I tell you you're afraid.""Afraid?""Yes. You've always said you wanted, above all, to look atlife, at the human problem, as it is, without fear andwithout hypocrisy; and it's not always a pleasant thing tolook at." He broke off, and then began again: "Don't thinkthis a plea for myself! I don't want to say a word to lessenmy offense. I don't want to talk of myself at all. Even ifI did, I probably couldn't make you understand--I don't,myself, as I look back. Be just to me--it's your right; allI ask you is to be generous to Miss Viner..."She stood up trembling. "You're free to be as generous toher as you please!""Yes: you've made it clear to me that I'm free. But there'snothing I can do for her that will help her half as much asyour understanding her would.""Nothing you can do for her? You can marry her!"His face hardened. "You certainly couldn't wish her a worsefate!""It must have been what she expected...relied on..."He wassilent, and she broke out: "Or what is she? What are you?
　　It's too horrible! On your way here...to ME..." She feltthe tears in her throat and stopped.
　　"That was it," he said bluntly. She stared at him.
　　"I was on my way to you--after repeated delays andpostponements of your own making. At the very last youturned me back with a mere word--and without explanation. Iwaited for a letter; and none came. I'm not saying this tojustify myself. I'm simply trying to make you understand.
　　I felt hurt and bitter and bewildered. I thought you meantto give me up. And suddenly, in my way, I found some one tobe sorry for, to be of use to. That, I swear to you, wasthe way it began. The rest was a moment's folly...a flashof madness...as such things are. We've never seen eachother since..."Anna was looking at him coldly. "You sufficiently describeher in saying that!""Yes, if you measure her by conventional standards--which iswhat you always declare you never do.""Conventional standards? A girl who----" She was checked bya sudden rush of almost physical repugnance. Suddenly shebroke out: "I always thought her an adventuress!""Always?""I don't mean always...but after you came...""She's not an adventuress.""You mean that she professes to act on the new theories? Thestuff that awful women rave about on platforms?""Oh, I don't think she pretended to have a theory----""She hadn't even that excuse?""She had the excuse of her loneliness, her unhappiness--ofmiseries and humiliations that a woman like you can't evenguess. She had nothing to look back to but indifference orunkindness--nothing to look forward to but anxiety. She sawI was sorry for her and it touched her. She made too muchof it--she exaggerated it. I ought to have seen the danger,but I didn't. There's no possible excuse for what I did."Anna listened to him in speechless misery. Every word hespoke threw back a disintegrating light on their own past.
　　He had come to her with an open face and a clear conscience--come to her from this! If his security was the security offalsehood it was horrible; if it meant that he hadforgotten, it was worse. She would have liked to stop herears, to close her eyes, to shut out every sight and soundand suggestion of a world in which such things could be; andat the same time she was tormented by the desire to knowmore, to understand better, to feel herself less ignorantand inexpert in matters which made so much of the stuff ofhuman experience. What did he mean by "a moment's folly, aflash of madness"? How did people enter on such adventures,how pass out of them without more visible traces of theirhavoc? Her imagination recoiled from the vision of a suddendebasing familiarity: it seemed to her that her thoughtswould never again be pure...
　　"I swear to you," she heard Darrow saying, "it was simplythat, and nothing more."She wondered at his composure, his competence, at hisknowing so exactly what to say. No doubt men often had tomake such explanations: they had the formulas by heart...Aleaden lassitude descended on her. She passed from flameand torment into a colourless cold world where everythingsurrounding her seemed equally indifferent and remote. Fora moment she simply ceased to feel.
　　She became aware that Darrow was waiting for her to speak,and she made an effort to represent to herself the meaningof what he had just said; but her mind was as blank as ablurred mirror. Finally she brought out: "I don't think Iunderstand what you've told me.""No; you don't understand," he returned with suddenbitterness; and on his lips the charge of incomprehensionseemed an offense to her.
　　"I don't want to--about such things!"He answered almost harshly: "Don't be afraid...you neverwill..." and for an instant they faced each other likeenemies. Then the tears swelled in her throat at hisreproach.
　　"You mean I don't feel things--I'm too hard?""No: you're too high...too fine...such things are too farfrom you."He paused, as if conscious of the futility of going on withwhatever he had meant to say, and again, for a short space,they confronted each other, no longer as enemies--so itseemed to her--but as beings of different language who hadforgotten the few words they had learned of each other'sspeech.
　　Darrow broke the silence. "It's best, on all accounts, thatI should stay till tomorrow; but I needn't intrude on you;we needn't meet again alone. I only want to be sure I knowyour wishes." He spoke the short sentences in a level voice,as though he were summing up the results of a businessconference.
　　Anna looked at him vaguely. "My wishes?""As to Owen----At that she started. "They must never meet again!""It's not likely they will. What I meant was, that itdepends on you to spare him..."She answered steadily: "He shall never know," and afteranother interval Darrow said: "This is good-bye, then."At the word she seemed to understand for the first timewhither the flying moments had been leading them. Resentmentand indignation died down, and all her consciousnessresolved itself into the mere visual sense that he was therebefore her, near enough for her to lift her hand and touchhim, and that in another instant the place where he stoodwould be empty.
　　She felt a mortal weakness, a craven impulse to cry out tohim to stay, a longing to throw herself into his arms, andtake refuge there from the unendurable anguish he had causedher. Then the vision called up another thought: "I shallnever know what that girl has known..." and the recoil ofpride flung her back on the sharp edges of her anguish.
　　"Good-bye," she said, in dread lest he should read her face;and she stood motionless, her head high, while he walked tothe door and went out.
Chapter 30
    Anna Leath, three days later, sat in Miss Painter's drawing-room in the rue de Matignon.
　　Coming up precipitately that morning from the country, shehad reached Paris at one o'clock and Miss Painter's landingsome ten minutes later. Miss Painter's mouldy little man-servant, dissembling a napkin under his arm, had mildlyattempted to oppose her entrance; but Anna, insisting, hadgone straight to the dining-room and surprised her friend--who ate as furtively as certain animals--over a strange mealof cold mutton and lemonade. Ignoring the embarrassment shecaused, she had set forth the object of her journey, andMiss Painter, always hatted and booted for action, hadimmediately hastened out, leaving her to the solitude of thebare fireless drawing-room with its eternal slip-covers and"bowed" shutters.
　　In this inhospitable obscurity Anna had sat alone for closeupon two hours. Both obscurity and solitude were acceptableto her, and impatient as she was to hear the result of theerrand on which she had despatched her hostess, she desiredstill more to be alone. During her long meditation in awhite-swathed chair before the muffled hearth she had beenable for the first time to clear a way through the darknessand confusion of her thoughts. The way did not go far, andher attempt to trace it was as weak and spasmodic as aconvalescent's first efforts to pick up the thread ofliving. She seemed to herself like some one struggling torise from a long sickness of which it would have been somuch easier to die. At Givre she had fallen into a kind oftorpor, a deadness of soul traversed by wild flashes ofpain; but whether she suffered or whether she was numb, sheseemed equally remote from her real living and doing self.
　　It was only the discovery--that very morning--of Owen'sunannounced departure for Paris that had caught her out ofher dream and forced her back to action. The dread of whatthis flight might imply, and of the consequences that mightresult from it, had roused her to the sense of herresponsibility, and from the moment when she had resolved tofollow her step-son, and had made her rapid preparations forpursuit, her mind had begun to work again, feverishly,fitfully, but still with something of its normal order. Inthe train she had been too agitated, too preoccupied withwhat might next await her, to give her thoughts to anythingbut the turning over of dread alternatives; but MissPainter's imperviousness had steadied her, and while shewaited for the sound of the latch-key she resolutelyreturned upon herself.
　　With respect to her outward course she could at least tellherself that she had held to her purpose. She had, aspeople said, "kept up" during the twenty-four hourspreceding George Darrow's departure; had gone with a calmface about her usual business, and even contrived not tooobviously to avoid him. Then, the next day before dawn,from behind the closed shutters where she had kept for halfthe night her dry-eyed vigil, she had heard him drive off tothe train which brought its passengers to Paris in time forthe Calais express.
　　The fact of his taking that train, of his travelling sostraight and far away from her, gave to what had happenedthe implacable outline of reality. He was gone; he wouldnot come back; and her life had ended just as she haddreamed it was beginning. She had no doubt, at first, as tothe absolute inevitability of this conclusion. The man whohad driven away from her house in the autumn dawn was notthe man she had loved; he was a stranger with whom she hadnot a single thought in common. It was terrible, indeed,that he wore the face and spoke in the voice of her friend,and that, as long as he was under one roof with her, themere way in which he moved and looked could bridge at astroke the gulf between them. That, no doubt, was the faultof her exaggerated sensibility to outward things: she wasfrightened to see how it enslaved her. A day or two beforeshe had supposed the sense of honour was her deepestsentiment: if she had smiled at the conventions of others itwas because they were too trivial, not because they were toograve. There were certain dishonours with which she hadnever dreamed that any pact could be made: she had had anincorruptible passion for good faith and fairness.
　　She had supposed that, once Darrow was gone, once she wassafe from the danger of seeing and hearing him, this highdevotion would sustain her. She had believed it would bepossible to separate the image of the man she had thoughthim from that of the man he was. She had even foreseen thehour when she might raise a mournful shrine to the memory ofthe Darrow she had loved, without fear that his double'sshadow would desecrate it. But now she had begun tounderstand that the two men were really one. The Darrow sheworshipped was inseparable from the Darrow she abhorred; andthe inevitable conclusion was that both must go, and she beleft in the desert of a sorrow without memories...
　　But if the future was thus void, the present was all toofull. Never had blow more complex repercussions; and toremember Owen was to cease to think of herself. Whatimpulse, what apprehension, had sent him suddenly to Paris?
　　And why had he thought it needful to conceal his going fromher? When Sophy Viner had left, it had been with theunderstanding that he was to await her summons; and itseemed improbable that he would break his pledge, and seekher without leave, unless his lover's intuition had warnedhim of some fresh danger. Anna recalled how quickly he hadread the alarm in her face when he had rushed back to hersitting-room with the news that Miss Viner had promised tosee him again in Paris. To be so promptly roused, hissuspicions must have been but half-asleep; and since then,no doubt, if she and Darrow had dissembled, so had he. Toher proud directness it was degrading to think that they hadbeen living together like enemies who spy upon each other'smovements: she felt a desperate longing for the days whichhad seemed so dull and narrow, but in which she had walkedwith her head high and her eyes unguarded.
　　She had come up to Paris hardly knowing what peril shefeared, and still less how she could avert it. If Owenmeant to see Miss Viner--and what other object could hehave?--they must already be together, and it was too late tointerfere. It had indeed occurred to Anna that Paris mightnot be his objective point: that his real purpose in leavingGivre without her knowledge had been to follow Darrow toLondon and exact the truth of him. But even to her alarmedimagination this seemed improbable. She and Darrow, to thelast, had kept up so complete a feint of harmony that,whatever Owen had surmised, he could scarcely have riskedacting on his suspicions. If he still felt the need of anexplanation, it was almost certainly of Sophy Viner that hewould ask it; and it was in quest of Sophy Viner that Annahad despatched Miss Painter.
　　She had found a blessed refuge from her perplexities in thestolid Adelaide's unawareness. One could so absolutelycount on Miss Painter's guessing no more than one chose, andyet acting astutely on such hints as one vouchsafed her! Shewas like a well-trained retriever whose interest in his preyceases when he lays it at his master's feet. Anna, onarriving, had explained that Owen's unannounced flight hadmade her fear some fresh misunderstanding between himselfand Miss Viner. In the interests of peace she had thought itbest to follow him; but she hastily added that she did notwish to see Sophy, but only, if possible, to learn from herwhere Owen was. With these brief instructions Miss Painterhad started out; but she was a woman of many occupations,and had given her visitor to understand that beforereturning she should have to call on a friend who had justarrived from Boston, and afterward despatch to anotherexiled compatriot a supply of cranberries and brandiedpeaches from the American grocery in the Champs Elysees.
　　Gradually, as the moments passed, Anna began to feel thereaction which, in moments of extreme nervous tension,follows on any effort of the will. She seemed to have goneas far as her courage would carry her, and she shrank moreand more from the thought of Miss Painter's return, sincewhatever information the latter brought would necessitatesome fresh decision. What should she say to Owen if shefound him? What could she say that should not betray the onething she would give her life to hide from him? "Give herlife"--how the phrase derided her! It was a gift she wouldnot have bestowed on her worst enemy. She would not havehad Sophy Viner live the hours she was living now...
　　She tried again to look steadily and calmly at the picturethat the image of the girl evoked. She had an idea that sheought to accustom herself to its contemplation. If life waslike that, why the sooner one got used to it thebetter...But no! Life was not like that. Her adventure wasa hideous accident. She dreaded above all the temptation togeneralise from her own case, to doubt the high things shehad lived by and seek a cheap solace in belittling what fatehad refused her. There was such love as she had dreamed,and she meant to go on believing in it, and cherishing thethought that she was worthy of it. What had happened to herwas grotesque and mean and miserable; but she herself wasnone of these things, and never, never would she make ofherself the mock that fate had made of her...
　　She could not, as yet, bear to think deliberately of Darrow;but she kept on repeating to herself "By and bye that willcome too." Even now she was determined not to let his imagebe distorted by her suffering. As soon as she could, shewould try to single out for remembrance the individualthings she had liked in him before she had loved himaltogether. No "spiritual exercise" devised by thediscipline of piety could have been more torturing; but itsvery cruelty attracted her. She wanted to wear herself outwith new pains...
Chapter 31
    The sound of Miss Painter's latch-key made her start. Shewas still a bundle of quivering fears to whom each comingmoment seemed a menace.
　　There was a slight interval, and a sound of voices in thehall; then Miss Painter's vigorous hand was on the door.
　　Anna stood up as she came in. "You've found him?""I've found Sophy.""And Owen?--has she seen him? Is he here?""SHE'S here: in the hall. She wants to speak to you.""Here--NOW?" Anna found no voice for more.
　　"She drove back with me," Miss Painter continued in the toneof impartial narrative. "The cabman was impertinent. I'vegot his number." She fumbled in a stout black reticule.
　　"Oh, I can't--" broke from Anna; but she collected herself,remembering that to betray her unwillingness to see the girlwas to risk revealing much more.
　　"She thought you might be too tired to see her: she wouldn'tcome in till I'd found out."Anna drew a quick breath. An instant's thought had told herthat Sophy Viner would hardly have taken such a step unlesssomething more important had happened. "Ask her to come,please," she said.
　　Miss Painter, from the threshold, turned back to announceher intention of going immediately to the police station toreport the cabman's delinquency; then she passed out, andSophy Viner entered.
　　The look in the girl's face showed that she had indeed comeunwillingly; yet she seemed animated by an eagerresoluteness that made Anna ashamed of her tremors. For amoment they looked at each other in silence, as if thethoughts between them were packed too thick for speech; thenAnna said, in a voice from which she strove to take the edgeof hardness: "You know where Owen is, Miss Painter tellsme.""Yes; that was my reason for asking you to see me." Sophyspoke simply, without constraint or hesitation.
　　"I thought he'd promised you--" Anna interposed.
　　"He did; but he broke his promise. That's what I thought Iought to tell you.""Thank you." Anna went on tentatively: "He left Givre thismorning without a word. I followed him because I wasafraid..."She broke off again and the girl took up her phrase. "Youwere afraid he'd guessed? He HAS...""What do you mean--guessed what?""That you know something he doesn't...something that madeyou glad to have me go.""Oh--" Anna moaned. If she had wanted more pain she had itnow. "He's told you this?" she faltered.
　　"He hasn't told me, because I haven't seen him. I kept himoff--I made Mrs. Farlow get rid of him. But he's written mewhat he came to say; and that was it.""Oh, poor Owen!" broke from Anna. Through all theintricacies of her suffering she felt the separate pang ofhis.
　　"And I want to ask you," the girl continued, "to let me seehim; for of course," she added in the same strange voice ofenergy, "I wouldn't unless you consented.""To see him?" Anna tried to gather together her startledthoughts. "What use would it be? What could you tell him?""I want to tell him the truth," said Sophy Viner.
　　The two women looked at each other, and a burning blush roseto Anna's forehead. "I don't understand," she faltered.
　　Sophy waited a moment; then she lowered her voice to say: "Idon't want him to think worse of me than he need...""Worse?""Yes--to think such things as you're thinking now...I wanthim to know exactly what happened...then I want to bid himgood-bye."Anna tried to clear a way through her own wonder andconfusion. She felt herself obscurely moved.
　　"Wouldn't it be worse for him?""To hear the truth? It would be better, at any rate, for youand Mr. Darrow."At the sound of the name Anna lifted her head quickly. "I'veonly my step-son to consider!"The girl threw a startled look at her. "You don't mean--you're not going to give him up?"Anna felt her lips harden. "I don't think it's of any useto talk of that.""Oh, I know! It's my fault for not knowing how to say what Iwant you to hear. Your words are different; you know how tochoose them. Mine offend you...and the dread of it makes meblunder. That's why, the other day, I couldn't sayanything...couldn't make things clear to you. But nowMUST, even if you hate it!" She drew a step nearer, herslender figure swayed forward in a passion of entreaty. "Dolisten to me! What you've said is dreadful. How can youspeak of him in that voice? Don't you see that I went awayso that he shouldn't have to lose you?"Anna looked at her coldly. "Are you speaking of Mr. Darrow?
　　I don't know why you think your going or staying can in anyway affect our relations.""You mean that you HAVE given him up--because of me? Oh,how could you? You can't really love him!--And yet," thegirl suddenly added, "you must, or you'd be more sorry forme!""I'm very sorry for you," Anna said, feeling as if the ironband about her heart pressed on it a little less inexorably.
　　"Then why won't you hear me? Why won't you try tounderstand? It's all so different from what you imagine!""I've never judged you.""I'm not thinking of myself. He loves you!""I thought you'd come to speak of Owen."Sophy Viner seemed not to hear her. "He's never loved anyone else. Even those few days...I knew it all thewhile...he never cared for me.""Please don't say any more!" Anna said.
　　"I know it must seem strange to you that I should say somuch. I shock you, I offend you: you think me a creaturewithout shame. So I am--but not in the sense you think! I'mnot ashamed of having loved him; no; and I'm not ashamed oftelling you so. It's that that justifies me--and himtoo...Oh, let me tell you how it happened! He was sorry forme: he saw I cared. I KNEW that was all he ever felt. Icould see he was thinking of some one else. I knew it wasonly for a week...He never said a word to mislead me...Iwanted to be happy just once--and I didn't dream of the harmI might be doing him!"Anna could not speak. She hardly knew, as yet, what thegirl's words conveyed to her, save the sense of their tragicfervour; but she was conscious of being in the presence ofan intenser passion than she had ever felt.
　　"I am sorry for you." She paused. "But why do you say thisto me?" After another interval she exclaimed: "You'd noright to let Owen love you.""No; that was wrong. At least what's happened since hasmade it so. If things had been different I think I couldhave made Owen happy. You were all so good to me--I wantedso to stay with you! I suppose you'll say that makes itworse: my daring to dream I had the right...But all thatdoesn't matter now. I won't see Owen unless you're willing.
　　I should have liked to tell him what I've tried to tell you;but you must know better; you feel things in a finer way.
　　Only you'll have to help him if I can't. He cares a greatdeal...it's going to hurt him..."Anna trembled. "Oh, I know! What can I do?""You can go straight back to Givre--now, at once! So thatOwen shall never know you've followed him." Sophy's claspedhands reached out urgently. "And you can send for Mr.
　　Darrow--bring him back. Owen must be convinced that he'smistaken, and nothing else will convince him. AfterwardI'll find a pretext--oh, I promise you! But first he mustsee for himself that nothing's changed for you."Anna stood motionless, subdued and dominated. The girl'sardour swept her like a wind.
　　"Oh, can't I move you? Some day you'll know!" Sophy pleaded,her eyes full of tears.
　　Anna saw them, and felt a fullness in her throat. Again theband about her heart seemed loosened. She wanted to find aword, but could not: all within her was too dark andviolent. She gave the girl a speechless look.
　　"I do believe you," she said suddenly; then she turned andwalked out of the room.
Chapter 32
    She drove from Miss Painter's to her own apartment. Themaid-servant who had it in charge had been apprised of hercoming, and had opened one or two of the rooms, and prepareda fire in her bedroom. Anna shut herself in, refusing thewoman's ministrations. She felt cold and faint, and aftershe had taken off her hat and cloak she knelt down by thefire and stretched her hands to it.
　　In one respect, at least, it was clear to her that she woulddo well to follow Sophy Viner's counsel. It had been an actof folly to follow Owen, and her first business was to getback to Givre before him. But the only train leaving thatevening was a slow one, which did not reach Francheuil tillmidnight, and she knew that her taking it would exciteMadame de Chantelle's wonder and lead to interminable talk.
　　She had come up to Paris on the pretext of finding a newgoverness for Effie, and the natural thing was to defer herreturn till the next morning. She knew Owen well enough tobe sure that he would make another attempt to see MissViner, and failing that, would write again and await heranswer: so that there was no likelihood of his reachingGivre till the following evening.
　　Her sense of relief at not having to start out at onceshowed her for the first time how tired she was. Thebonne had suggested a cup of tea, but the dread of havingany one about her had made Anna refuse, and she had eatennothing since morning but a sandwich bought at a buffet.
　　She was too tired to get up, but stretching out her arm shedrew toward her the arm-chair which stood beside the hearthand rested her head against its cushions. Gradually thewarmth of the fire stole into her veins and her heaviness ofsoul was replaced by a dreamy buoyancy. She seemed to beseated on the hearth in her sitting-room at Givre, andDarrow was beside her, in the chair against which sheleaned. He put his arms about her shoulders and drawing herhead back looked into her eyes. "Of all the ways you doyour hair, that's the way I like best," he said...
　　A log dropped, and she sat up with a start. There was awarmth in her heart, and she was smiling. Then she lookedabout her, and saw where she was, and the glory fell. Shehid her face and sobbed.
　　Presently she perceived that it was growing dark, andgetting up stiffly she began to undo the things in her bagand spread them on the dressing-table. She shrank fromlighting the lights, and groped her way about, trying tofind what she needed. She seemed immeasurably far off fromevery one, and most of all from herself. It was as if herconsciousness had been transmitted to some stranger whosethoughts and gestures were indifferent to her...
　　Suddenly she heard a shrill tinkle, and with a beating heartshe stood still in the middle of the room. It was thetelephone in her dressing-room--a call, no doubt, fromAdelaide Painter. Or could Owen have learned she was intown? The thought alarmed her and she opened the door andstumbled across the unlit room to the instrument. She heldit to her ear, and heard Darrow's voice pronounce her name.
　　"Will you let me see you? I've come back--I had to come.
　　Miss Painter told me you were here."She began to tremble, and feared that he would guess it fromher voice. She did not know what she answered: she heardhim say: "I can't hear." She called "Yes!" and laid thetelephone down, and caught it up again--but he was gone.
　　She wondered if her "Yes" had reached him.
　　She sat in her chair and listened. Why had she said thatshe would see him? What did she mean to say to him when hecame? Now and then, as she sat there, the sense of hispresence enveloped her as in her dream, and she shut hereyes and felt his arms about her. Then she woke to realityand shivered. A long time elapsed, and at length she saidto herself: "He isn't coming."The door-bell rang as she said it, and she stood up, coldand trembling. She thought: "Can he imagine there's any usein coming?" and moved forward to bid the servant say shecould not see him.
　　The door opened and she saw him standing in the drawing-room. The room was cold and fireless, and a hard glare fellfrom the wall-lights on the shrouded furniture and the whiteslips covering the curtains. He looked pale and stern, witha frown of fatigue between his eyes; and she remembered thatin three days he had travelled from Givre to London andback. It seemed incredible that all that had befallen hershould have been compressed within the space of three days!
　　"Thank you," he said as she came in.
　　She answered: "It's better, I suppose----"He came toward her and took her in his arms. She struggleda little, afraid of yielding, but he pressed her to him, notbending to her but holding her fast, as though he had foundher after a long search: she heard his hurried breathing.
　　It seemed to come from her own breast, so close he held her;and it was she who, at last, lifted up her face and drewdown his.
　　She freed herself and went and sat on a sofa at the otherend of the room. A mirror between the shrouded window-curtains showed her crumpled travelling dress and the whiteface under her disordered hairShe found her voice, and asked him how he had been able toleave London. He answered that he had managed--he'darranged it; and she saw he hardly heard what she wassaying.
　　"I had to see you," he went on, and moved nearer, sittingdown at her side.
　　"Yes; we must think of Owen----""Oh, Owen--!"Her mind had flown back to Sophy Viner's plea that sheshould let Darrow return to Givre in order that Owen mightbe persuaded of the folly of his suspicions. The suggestionwas absurd, of course. She could not ask Darrow to lendhimself to such a fraud, even had she had the inhumancourage to play her part in it. She was suddenlyoverwhelmed by the futility of every attempt to reconstructher ruined world. No, it was useless; and since it wasuseless, every moment with Darrow was pure pain...
　　"I've come to talk of myself, not of Owen," she heard himsaying. "When you sent me away the other day I understoodthat it couldn't be otherwise--then. But it's not possiblethat you and I should part like that. If I'm to lose you, itmust be for a better reason.""A better reason?""Yes: a deeper one. One that means a fundamental disaccordbetween us. This one doesn't--in spite of everything itdoesn't. That's what I want you to see, and have thecourage to acknowledge.""If I saw it I should have the courage!""Yes: courage was the wrong word. You have that. That's whyI'm here.""But I don't see it," she continued sadly. "So it'suseless, isn't it?--and so cruel..." He was about to speak,but she went on: "I shall never understand it--never!"He looked at her. "You will some day: you were made to feeleverything""I should have thought this was a case of not feeling----""On my part, you mean?" He faced her resolutely. "Yes, itwas: to my shame...What I meant was that when you've lived alittle longer you'll see what complex blunderers we all are:
　　how we're struck blind sometimes, and mad sometimes--andthen, when our sight and our senses come back, how we haveto set to work, and build up, little by little, bit by bit,the precious things we'd smashed to atoms without knowingit. Life's just a perpetual piecing together of brokenbits."She looked up quickly. "That's what I feel: that you oughtto----"He stood up, interrupting her with a gesture. "Oh, don't--don't say what you're going to! Men don't give their livesaway like that. If you won't have mine, it's at least myown, to do the best I can with.""The best you can--that's what I mean! How can there be a'best' for you that's made of some one else's worst?"He sat down again with a groan. "I don't know! It seemedsuch a slight thing--all on the surface--and I've goneaground on it because it was on the surface. I see thehorror of it just as you do. But I see, a little moreclearly, the extent, and the limits, of my wrong. It's notas black as you imagine."She lowered her voice to say: "I suppose I shall neverunderstand; but she seems to love you...""There's my shame! That I didn't guess it, didn't fly fromit. You say you'll never understand: but why shouldn't you?
　　Is it anything to be proud of, to know so little of thestrings that pull us? If you knew a little more, I couldtell you how such things happen without offending you; andperhaps you'd listen without condemning me.""I don't condemn you." She was dizzy with strugglingimpulses. She longed to cry out: "I DO understand! I'veunderstood ever since you've been here!" For she was aware,in her own bosom, of sensations so separate from herromantic thoughts of him that she saw her body and souldivided against themselves. She recalled having readsomewhere that in ancient Rome the slaves were not allowedto wear a distinctive dress lest they should recognize eachother and learn their numbers and their power. So, inherself, she discerned for the first time instincts anddesires, which, mute and unmarked, had gone to and fro inthe dim passages of her mind, and now hailed each other witha cry of mutiny.
　　"Oh, I don't know what to think!" she broke out. "You sayyou didn't know she loved you. But you know it now.
　　Doesn't that show you how you can put the broken bitstogether?""Can you seriously think it would be doing so to marry onewoman while I care for another?""Oh, I don't know...I don't know..." The sense of herweakness made her try to harden herself against hisarguments.
　　"You do know! We've often talked of such things: of themonstrousness of useless sacrifices. If I'm to expiate,it's not in that way." He added abruptly: "It's in having tosay this to you now..."She found no answer.
　　Through the silent apartment they heard the sudden peal ofthe door-bell, and she rose to her feet. "Owen!" sheinstantly exclaimed.
　　"Is Owen in Paris?"She explained in a rapid undertone what she had learned fromSophy Viner.
　　"Shall I leave you?" Darrow asked.
　　"Yes...no..." She moved to the dining-room door, with thehalf-formed purpose of making him pass out, and then turnedback. "It may be Adelaide."They heard the outer door open, and a moment later Owenwalked into the room. He was pale, with excited eyes: asthey fell on Darrow, Anna saw his start of wonder. He made aslight sign of recognition, and then went up to his step-mother with an air of exaggerated gaiety.
　　"You furtive person! I ran across the omniscient Adelaideand heard from her that you'd rushed up suddenly andsecretly " He stood between Anna and Darrow, strained,questioning, dangerously on edge.
　　"I came up to meet Mr. Darrow," Anna answered. "His leave'sbeen prolonged--he's going back with me."The words seemed to have uttered themselves without herwill, yet she felt a great sense of freedom as she spokethem.
　　The hard tension of Owen's face changed to increduloussurprise. He looked at Darrow.
　　"The merest luck...a colleague whose wife was ill...I camestraight back," she heard the latter tranquilly explaining.
　　His self-command helped to steady her, and she smiled atOwen.
　　"We'll all go back together tomorrow morning," she said asshe slipped her arm through his.
Chapter 33
    Owen Leath did not go back with his step-mother to Givre.
　　In reply to her suggestion he announced his intention ofstaying on a day or two longer in Paris.
　　Anna left alone by the first train the next morning. Darrowwas to follow in the afternoon. When Owen had left them theevening before, Darrow waited a moment for her to speak;then, as she said nothing, he asked her if she really wishedhim to return to Givre. She made a mute sign of assent, andhe added: "For you know that, much as I'm ready to do forOwen, I can't do that for him--I can't go back to be sentaway again.""No--no!"He came nearer, and looked at her, and she went to him. Allher fears seemed to fall from her as he held her. It was adifferent feeling from any she had known before: confusedand turbid, as if secret shames and rancours stirred in it,yet richer, deeper, more enslaving. She leaned her headback and shut her eyes beneath his kisses. She knew nowthat she could never give him up.
　　Nevertheless she asked him, the next morning, to let her goback alone to Givre. She wanted time to think. She wasconvinced that what had happened was inevitable, that sheand Darrow belonged to each other, and that he was right insaying no past folly could ever put them asunder. If therewas a shade of difference in her feeling for him it was thatof an added intensity. She felt restless, insecure out ofhis sight: she had a sense of incompleteness, of passionatedependence, that was somehow at variance with her ownconception of her character.
　　It was partly the consciousness of this change in herselfthat made her want to be alone. The solitude of her innerlife had given her the habit of these hours of self-examination, and she needed them as she needed her morningplunge into cold water.
　　During the journey she tried to review what had happened inthe light of her new decision and of her sudden relief frompain. She seemed to herself to have passed through somefiery initiation from which she had emerged seared andquivering, but clutching to her breast a magic talisman.
　　Sophy Viner had cried out to her: "Some day you'll know!"and Darrow had used the same words. They meant, shesupposed, that when she had explored the intricacies anddarknesses of her own heart her judgment of others would beless absolute. Well, she knew now--knew weaknesses andstrengths she had not dreamed of, and the deep discord andstill deeper complicities between what thought in her andwhat blindly wanted...
　　Her mind turned anxiously to Owen. At least the blow thatwas to fall on him would not seem to have been inflicted byher hand. He would be left with the impression that hisbreach with Sophy Viner was due to one of the ordinarycauses of such disruptions: though he must lose her, hismemory of her would not be poisoned. Anna never for amoment permitted herself the delusion that she had renewedher promise to Darrow in order to spare her step-son thislast refinement of misery. She knew she had been promptedby the irresistible impulse to hold fast to what was mostprecious to her, and that Owen's arrival on the scene hadbeen the pretext for her decision, and not its cause; yetshe felt herself fortified by the thought of what she hadspared him. It was as though a star she had been used tofollow had shed its familiar ray on ways unknown to her.
　　All through these meditations ran the undercurrent of anabsolute trust in Sophy Viner. She thought of the girl witha mingling of antipathy and confidence. It was humiliatingto her pride to recognize kindred impulses in a characterwhich she would have liked to feel completely alien to her.
　　But what indeed was the girl really like? She seemed to haveno scruples and a thousand delicacies. She had givenherself to Darrow, and concealed the episode from OwenLeath, with no more apparent sense of debasement than thevulgarest of adventuresses; yet she had instantly obeyed thevoice of her heart when it bade her part from the one andserve the other.
　　Anna tried to picture what the girl's life must have been:
　　what experiences, what initiations, had formed her. But herown training had been too different: there were veils shecould not lift. She looked back at her married life, andits colourless uniformity took on an air of high restraintand order. Was it because she had been so incurious that ithad worn that look to her? It struck her with amazement thatshe had never given a thought to her husband's past, orwondered what he did and where he went when he was away fromher. If she had been asked what she supposed he thoughtabout when they were apart, she would instantly haveanswered: his snuff-boxes. It had never occurred to herthat he might have passions, interests, preoccupations ofwhich she was absolutely ignorant. Yet he went up to Parisrather regularly: ostensibly to attend sales andexhibitions, or to confer with dealers and collectors. Shetried to picture him, straight, trim, beautifully brushedand varnished, walking furtively down a quiet street, andlooking about him before he slipped into a doorway. Sheunderstood now that she had been cold to him: what morelikely than that he had sought compensations? All men werelike that, she supposed--no doubt her simplicity had amusedhim.
　　In the act of transposing Fraser Leath into a Don Juan shewas pulled up by the ironic perception that she was simplytrying to justify Darrow. She wanted to think that all menwere "like that" because Darrow was "like that": she wantedto justify her acceptance of the fact by persuading herselfthat only through such concessions could women like herselfhope to keep what they could not give up. And suddenly shewas filled with anger at her blindness, and then at herdisastrous attempt to see. Why had she forced the truth outof Darrow? If only she had held her tongue nothing need everhave been known. Sophy Viner would have broken herengagement, Owen would have been sent around the world, andher own dream would have been unshattered. But she hadprobed, insisted, cross-examined, not rested till she haddragged the secret to the light. She was one of the lucklesswomen who always have the wrong audacities, and who alwaysknow it...
　　Was it she, Anna Leath, who was picturing herself to herselfin that way? She recoiled from her thoughts as if with asense of demoniac possession, and there flashed through herthe longing to return to her old state of fearlessignorance. If at that moment she could have kept Darrowfrom following her to Givre she would have done so...
　　But he came; and with the sight of him the turmoil fell andshe felt herself reassured, rehabilitated. He arrivedtoward dusk, and she motored to Francheuil to meet him. Shewanted to see him as soon as possible, for she had divined,through the new insight that was in her, that only hispresence could restore her to a normal view of things. Inthe motor, as they left the town and turned into the high-road, he lifted her hand and kissed it, and she leanedagainst him, and felt the currents flow between them. Shewas grateful to him for not saying anything, and for notexpecting her to speak. She said to herself: "He nevermakes a mistake--he always knows what to do"; and then shethought with a start that it was doubtless because he had sooften been in such situations. The idea that his tact was akind of professional expertness filled her with repugnance,and insensibly she drew away from him. He made no motion tobring her nearer, and she instantly thought that that wascalculated too. She sat beside him in frozen misery,wondering whether, henceforth, she would measure in this wayhis every look and gesture. Neither of them spoke againtill the motor turned under the dark arch of the avenue, andthey saw the lights of Givre twinkling at its end. ThenDarrow laid his hand on hers and said: "I know, dear--" andthe hardness in her melted. "He's suffering as I am," shethought; and for a moment the baleful fact between themseemed to draw them closer instead of walling them up intheir separate wretchedness.
　　It was wonderful to be once more re-entering the doors ofGivre with him, and as the old house received them into itsmellow silence she had again the sense of passing out of adreadful dream into the reassurance of kindly and familiarthings. It did not seem possible that these quiet rooms, sofull of the slowly-distilled accumulations of a fastidioustaste, should have been the scene of tragic dissensions.
　　The memory of them seemed to be shut out into the night withthe closing and barring of its doors.
　　At the tea-table in the oak-room they found Madame deChantelle and Effie. The little girl, catching sight ofDarrow, raced down the drawing-rooms to meet him, andreturned in triumph on his shoulder. Anna looked at themwith a smile. Effie, for all her graces, was chary of suchfavours, and her mother knew that in according them toDarrow she had admitted him to the circle where Owen hadhitherto ruled.
　　Over the tea-table Darrow gave Madame de Chantelle theexplanation of his sudden return from England. On reachingLondon, he told her, he had found that the secretary he wasto have replaced was detained there by the illness of hiswife. The Ambassador, knowing Darrow's urgent reasons forwishing to be in France, had immediately proposed his goingback, and awaiting at Givre the summons to relieve hiscolleague; and he had jumped into the first train, withouteven waiting to telegraph the news of his release. He spokenaturally, easily, in his usual quiet voice, taking his teafrom Effie, helping himself to the toast she handed, andstooping now and then to stroke the dozing terrier. Andsuddenly, as Anna listened to his explanation, she askedherself if it were true.
　　The question, of course, was absurd. There was no possiblereason why he should invent a false account of his return,and every probability that the version he gave was the realone. But he had looked and spoken in the same way when hehad answered her probing questions about Sophy Viner, andshe reflected with a chill of fear that she would neveragain know if he were speaking the truth or not. She wassure he loved her, and she did not fear his insincerity asmuch as her own distrust of him. For a moment it seemed toher that this must corrupt the very source of love; then shesaid to herself: "By and bye, when I am altogether his, weshall be so near each other that there will be no room forany doubts between us." But the doubts were there now, onemoment lulled to quiescence, the next more torturinglyalert. When the nurse appeared to summon Effie, the littlegirl, after kissing her grandmother, entrenched herself onDarrow's knee with the imperious demand to be carried up tobed; and Anna, while she laughingly protested, said toherself with a pang: "Can I give her a father about whom Ithink such things?"The thought of Effie, and of what she owed to Effie, hadbeen the fundamental reason for her delays and hesitationswhen she and Darrow had come together again in England. Herown feeling was so clear that but for that scruple she wouldhave put her hand in his at once. But till she had seen himagain she had never considered the possibility of re-marriage, and when it suddenly confronted her it seemed, forthe moment, to disorganize the life she had planned forherself and her child. She had not spoken of this to Darrowbecause it appeared to her a subject to be debated withinher own conscience. The question, then, was not as to hisfitness to become the guide and guardian of her child; nordid she fear that her love for him would deprive Effie ofthe least fraction of her tenderness, since she did notthink of love as something measured and exhaustible but as atreasure perpetually renewed. What she questioned was herright to introduce into her life any interests and dutieswhich might rob Effie of a part of her time, or lessen thecloseness of their daily intercourse.
　　She had decided this question as it was inevitable that sheshould; but now another was before her. Assuredly, at herage, there was no possible reason why she should cloisterherself to bring up her daughter; but there was every reasonfor not marrying a man in whom her own faith was notcomplete...
Chapter 34
    When she woke the next morning she felt a great lightness ofheart. She recalled her last awakening at Givre, three daysbefore, when it had seemed as though all her life had gonedown in darkness. Now Darrow was once more under the sameroof with her, and once more his nearness sufficed to makethe looming horror drop away. She could almost have smiledat her scruples of the night before: as she looked back onthem they seemed to belong to the old ignorant timorous timewhen she had feared to look life in the face, and had beenblind to the mysteries and contradictions of the human heartbecause her own had not been revealed to her. Darrow hadsaid: "You were made to feel everything"; and to feel wassurely better than to judge.
　　When she came downstairs he was already in the oak-room withEffie and Madame de Chantelle, and the sense of reassurancewhich his presence gave her was merged in the relief of notbeing able to speak of what was between them. But there itwas, inevitably, and whenever they looked at each other theysaw it. In her dread of giving it a more tangible shape shetried to devise means of keeping the little girl with her,and, when the latter had been called away by the nurse,found an excuse for following Madame de Chantelle upstairsto the purple sitting-room. But a confidential talk withMadame de Chantelle implied the detailed discussion of plansof which Anna could hardly yet bear to consider the vaguestoutline: the date of her marriage, the relative advantagesof sailing from London or Lisbon, the possibility of hiringa habitable house at their new post; and, when theseproblems were exhausted, the application of the same methodto the subject of Owen's future.
　　His grandmother, having no suspicion of the real reason ofSophy Viner's departure, had thought it "extremely suitable"of the young girl to withdraw to the shelter of her oldfriends' roof in the hour of bridal preparation. Thismaidenly retreat had in fact impressed Madame de Chantelleso favourably that she was disposed for the first time totalk over Owen's projects; and as every human eventtranslated itself for her into terms of social and domesticdetail, Anna had perforce to travel the same round again.
　　She felt a momentary relief when Darrow presently joinedthem; but his coming served only to draw the conversationback to the question of their own future, and Anna felt anew pang as she heard him calmly and lucidly discussing it.
　　Did such self-possession imply indifference or insincerity?
　　In that problem her mind perpetually revolved; and shedreaded the one answer as much as the other.
　　She was resolved to keep on her course as though nothing hadhappened: to marry Darrow and never let the consciousness ofthe past intrude itself between them; but she was beginningto feel that the only way of attaining to this state ofdetachment from the irreparable was once for all to turnback with him to its contemplation. As soon as this desirehad germinated it became so strong in her that she regrettedhaving promised Effie to take her out for the afternoon.
　　But she could think of no pretext for disappointing thelittle girl, and soon after luncheon the three set forth inthe motor to show Darrow a chateau famous in the annals ofthe region. During their excursion Anna found it impossibleto guess from his demeanour if Effie's presence between themwas as much of a strain to his composure as to hers. Heremained imperturbably good-humoured and appreciative whilethey went the round of the monument, and she remarked onlythat when he thought himself unnoticed his face grew graveand his answers came less promptly.
　　On the way back, two or three miles from Givre, she suddenlyproposed that they should walk home through the forest whichskirted that side of the park. Darrow acquiesced, and theygot out and sent Effie on in the motor. Their way ledthrough a bit of sober French woodland, flat as a fadedtapestry, but with gleams of live emerald lingering here andthere among its browns and ochres. The luminous grey airgave vividness to its dying colours, and veiled the distantglimpses of the landscape in soft uncertainty. In such asolitude Anna had fancied it would be easier to speak; butas she walked beside Darrow over the deep soundless flooringof brown moss the words on her lips took flight again. Itseemed impossible to break the spell of quiet joy which hispresence laid on her, and when he began to talk of the placethey had just visited she answered his questions and thenwaited for what he should say next...No, decidedly she couldnot speak; she no longer even knew what she had meant tosay...
　　The same experience repeated itself several times that dayand the next. When she and Darrow were apart she exhaustedherself in appeal and interrogation, she formulated with afervent lucidity every point in her imaginary argument. Butas soon as she was alone with him something deeper thanreason and subtler than shyness laid its benumbing touchupon her, and the desire to speak became merely a dimdisquietude, through which his looks, his words, his touch,reached her as through a mist of bodily pain. Yet thisinertia was torn by wild flashes of resistance, and whenthey were apart she began to prepare again what she meant tosay to him.
　　She knew he could not be with her without being aware ofthis inner turmoil, and she hoped he would break the spellby some releasing word. But she presently understood thathe recognized the futility of words, and was resolutely benton holding her to her own purpose of behaving as if nothinghad happened. Once more she inwardly accused him ofinsensibility, and her imagination was beset by tormentingvisions of his past...Had such things happened to himbefore? If the episode had been an isolated accident--"amoment of folly and madness", as he had called it--she couldunderstand, or at least begin to understand (for at acertain point her imagination always turned back); but if itwere a mere link in a chain of similar experiments, thethought of it dishonoured her whole past...
　　Effie, in the interregnum between governesses, had beengiven leave to dine downstairs; and Anna, on the evening ofDarrow's return, kept the little girl with her till longafter the nurse had signalled from the drawing-room door.
　　When at length she had been carried off, Anna proposed agame of cards, and after this diversion had drawn to itslanguid close she said good-night to Darrow and followedMadame de Chantelle upstairs. But Madame de Chantelle neversat up late, and the second evening, with the amiablyimplied intention of leaving Anna and Darrow to themselves,she took an earlier leave of them than usual.
　　Anna sat silent, listening to her small stiff steps as theyminced down the hall and died out in the distance. Madamede Chantelle had broken her wooden embroidery frame, andDarrow, having offered to repair it, had drawn his chair upto a table that held a lamp. Anna watched him as he sat withbent head and knitted brows, trying to fit together thedisjoined pieces. The sight of him, so tranquilly absorbedin this trifling business, seemed to give to the quiet rooma perfume of intimacy, to fill it with a sense of sweetfamiliar habit; and it came over her again that she knewnothing of the inner thoughts of this man who was sitting byher as a husband might. The lamplight fell on his whiteforehead, on the healthy brown of his cheek, the backs ofhis thin sunburnt hands. As she watched the hands her senseof them became as vivid as a touch, and she said to herself:
　　"That other woman has sat and watched him as I am doing.
　　She has known him as I have never known him...Perhaps he isthinking of that now. Or perhaps he has forgotten it all ascompletely as I have forgotten everything that happened tome before he came..."He looked young, active, stored with strength and energy;not the man for vain repinings or long memories. Shewondered what she had to hold or satisfy him. He loved hernow; she had no doubt of that; but how could she hope tokeep him? They were so nearly of an age that already shefelt herself his senior. As yet the difference was notvisible; outwardly at least they were matched; but ill-health or unhappiness would soon do away with this equality.
　　She thought with a pang of bitterness: "He won't grow anyolder because he doesn't feel things; and because hedoesn't, I SHALL..."And when she ceased to please him, what then? Had he thetradition of faith to the spoken vow, or the deeper piety ofthe unspoken dedication? What was his theory, what his innerconviction in such matters? But what did she care for hisconvictions or his theories? No doubt he loved her now, andbelieved he would always go on loving her, and was persuadedthat, if he ceased to, his loyalty would be proof againstthe change. What she wanted to know was not what he thoughtabout it in advance, but what would impel or restrain him atthe crucial hour. She put no faith in her own arts: she wastoo sure of having none! And if some beneficent enchanterhad bestowed them on her, she knew now that she would haverejected the gift. She could hardly conceive of wanting thekind of love that was a state one could be cozened into...
　　Darrow, putting away the frame, walked across the room andsat down beside her; and she felt he had something specialto say.
　　"They're sure to send for me in a day or two now," he began.
　　She made no answer, and he continued: "You'll tell me beforeI go what day I'm to come back and get you?"It was the first time since his return to Givre that he hadmade any direct allusion to the date of their marriage; andinstead of answering him she broke out: "There's somethingI've been wanting you to know. The other day in Paris I sawMiss Viner."She saw him flush with the intensity of his surprise.
　　"You sent for her?""No; she heard from Adelaide that I was in Paris and shecame. She came because she wanted to urge me to marry you.
　　I thought you ought to know what she had done."Darrow stood up. "I'm glad you've told me." He spoke with avisible effort at composure. Her eyes followed him as hemoved away.
　　"Is that all?" he asked after an interval.
　　"It seems to me a great deal.""It's what she'd already asked me." His voice showed her howdeeply he was moved, and a throb of jealousy shot throughher.
　　"Oh, it was for your sake, I know!" He made no answer, andshe added: "She's been exceedingly generous...Why shouldn'twe speak of it?"She had lowered her head, but through her dropped lids sheseemed to be watching the crowded scene of his face.
　　"I've not shrunk from speaking of it.""Speaking of her, then, I mean. It seems to me that if Icould talk to you about her I should know better----"She broke off, confused, and he questioned: "What is it youwant to know better?"The colour rose to her forehead. How could she tell himwhat she scarcely dared own to herself? There was nothingshe did not want to know, no fold or cranny of his secretthat her awakened imagination did not strain to penetrate;but she could not expose Sophy Viner to the base fingeringsof a retrospective jealousy, nor Darrow to the temptation ofbelittling her in the effort to better his own case. Thegirl had been magnificent, and the only worthy return thatAnna could make was to take Darrow from her without aquestion if she took him at all...
　　She lifted her eyes to his face. "I think I only wanted tospeak her name. It's not right that we should seem soafraid of it. If I were really afraid of it I should haveto give you up," she said.
　　He bent over her and caught her to him. "Ah, you can't giveme up now!" he exclaimed.
　　She suffered him to hold her fast without speaking; but theold dread was between them again, and it was on her lips tocry out: "How can I help it, when I AM so afraid?"
Chapter 35
    The next morning the dread was still there, and sheunderstood that she must snatch herself out of the torpor ofthe will into which she had been gradually sinking, and tellDarrow that she could not be his wife.
　　The knowledge came to her in the watches of a sleeplessnight, when, through the tears of disenchanted passion, shestared back upon her past. There it lay before her, hersole romance, in all its paltry poverty, the cheapest ofcheap adventures, the most pitiful of sentimental blunders.
　　She looked about her room, the room where, for so manyyears, if her heart had been quiescent her thoughts had beenalive, and pictured herself henceforth cowering before athrong of mean suspicions, of unavowed compromises andconcessions. In that moment of self-searching she saw thatSophy Viner had chosen the better part, and that certainrenunciations might enrich where possession would have lefta desert.
　　Passionate reactions of instinct fought against theseefforts of her will. Why should past or future coerce her,when the present was so securely hers? Why insanelysurrender what the other would after all never have? Hersense of irony whispered that if she sent away Darrow itwould not be to Sophy Viner, but to the first woman whocrossed his path--as, in a similar hour, Sophy Viner herselfhad crossed it...But the mere fact that she could think suchthings of him sent her shuddering back to the opposite pole.
　　She pictured herself gradually subdued to such a conceptionof life and love, she pictured Effie growing up under theinfluence of the woman she saw herself becoming--and she hidher eyes from the humiliation of the picture...
　　They were at luncheon when the summons that Darrow expectedwas brought to him. He handed the telegram to Anna, and shelearned that his Ambassador, on the way to a German cure,was to be in Paris the next evening and wished to conferwith him there before he went back to London. The idea thatthe decisive moment was at hand was so agitating to her thatwhen luncheon was over she slipped away to the terrace andthence went down alone to the garden. The day was grey butmild, with the heaviness of decay in the air. She rambledon aimlessly, following under the denuded boughs the pathshe and Darrow had taken on their first walk to the river.
　　She was sure he would not try to overtake her: sure he wouldguess why she wished to be alone. There were moments whenit seemed to double her loneliness to be so certain of hisreading her heart while she was so desperately ignorant ofhis...
　　She wandered on for more than an hour, and when she returnedto the house she saw, as she entered the hall, that Darrowwas seated at the desk in Owen's study. He heard her step,and looking up turned in his chair without rising. Theireyes met, and she saw that his were clear and smiling. Hehad a heap of papers at his elbow and was evidently engagedin some official correspondence. She wondered that he couldaddress himself so composedly to his task, and thenironically reflected that such detachment was a sign of hissuperiority. She crossed the threshold and went toward him;but as she advanced she had a sudden vision of Owen,standing outside in the cold autumn dusk and watching Darrowand Sophy Viner as they faced each other across the lamplitdesk...The evocation was so vivid that it caught her breathlike a blow, and she sank down helplessly on the divan amongthe piled-up books. Distinctly, at the moment, sheunderstood that the end had come. "When he speaks to me Iwill tell him!" she thought...
　　Darrow, laying aside his pen, looked at her for a moment insilence; then he stood up and shut the door.
　　"I must go to-morrow early," he said, sitting down besideher. His voice was grave, with a slight tinge of sadness.
　　She said to herself: "He knows what I am feeling..." and nowthe thought made her feel less alone. The expression of hisface was stern and yet tender: for the first time sheunderstood what he had suffered.
　　She had no doubt as to the necessity of giving him up, butit was impossible to tell him so then. She stood up andsaid: "I'll leave you to your letters." He made no protest,but merely answered: "You'll come down presently for awalk?" and it occurred to her at once that she would walkdown to the river with him, and give herself for the lasttime the tragic luxury of sitting at his side in the littlepavilion. "Perhaps," she thought, "it will be easier totell him there."It did not, on the way home from their walk, become anyeasier to tell him; but her secret decision to do so beforehe left gave her a kind of factitious calm and laid amelancholy ecstasy upon the hour. Still skirting thesubject that fanned their very faces with its flame, theyclung persistently to other topics, and it seemed to Annathat their minds had never been nearer together than in thishour when their hearts were so separate. In the glow ofinterchanged love she had grown less conscious of that otherglow of interchanged thought which had once illumined hermind. She had forgotten how Darrow had widened her worldand lengthened out all her perspectives, and with a pang ofdouble destitution she saw herself alone among her shrunkenthoughts.
　　For the first time, then, she had a clear vision of what herlife would be without him. She imagined herself trying totake up the daily round, and all that had lightened andanimated it seemed equally lifeless and vain. She tried tothink of herself as wholly absorbed in her daughter'sdevelopment, like other mothers she had seen; but shesupposed those mothers must have had stored memories ofhappiness to nourish them. She had had nothing, and all herstarved youth still claimed its due.
　　When she went up to dress for dinner she said to herself:
　　"I'll have my last evening with him, and then, before we saygood night, I'll tell him."This postponement did not seem unjustified. Darrow hadshown her how he dreaded vain words, how resolved he was toavoid all fruitless discussion. He must have been intenselyaware of what had been going on in her mind since hisreturn, yet when she had attempted to reveal it to him hehad turned from the revelation. She was therefore merelyfollowing the line he had traced in behaving, till the finalmoment came, as though there were nothing more to say...
　　That moment seemed at last to be at hand when, at her usualhour after dinner, Madame de Chantelle rose to go upstairs.
　　She lingered a little to bid good-bye to Darrow, whom shewas not likely to see in the morning; and her affableallusions to his prompt return sounded in Anna's ear likethe note of destiny.
　　A cold rain had fallen all day, and for greater warmth andintimacy they had gone after dinner to the oak-room,shutting out the chilly vista of the farther drawing-rooms.
　　The autumn wind, coming up from the river, cried about thehouse with a voice of loss and separation; and Anna andDarrow sat silent, as if they feared to break the hush thatshut them in. The solitude, the fire-light, the harmony ofsoft hangings and old dim pictures, wove about them a spellof security through which Anna felt, far down in her heart,the muffled beat of an inextinguishable bliss. How could shehave thought that this last moment would be the moment tospeak to him, when it seemed to have gathered up into itsflight all the scattered splendours of her dream?
Chapter 36
    Darrow continued to stand by the door after it had closed.
　　Anna felt that he was looking at her, and sat still,disdaining to seek refuge in any evasive word or movement.
　　For the last time she wanted to let him take from her thefulness of what the sight of her could give.
　　He crossed over and sat down on the sofa. For a momentneither of them spoke; then he said: "To-night, dearest, Imust have my answer."She straightened herself under the shock of his seeming totake the very words from her lips.
　　"To-night?" was all that she could falter.
　　"I must be off by the early train. There won't be more thana moment in the morning."He had taken her hand, and she said to herself that she mustfree it before she could go on with what she had to say.
　　Then she rejected this concession to a weakness she wasresolved to defy. To the end she would leave her hand inhis hand, her eyes in his eyes: she would not, in theirfinal hour together, be afraid of any part of her love forhim.
　　"You'll tell me to-night, dear," he insisted gently; and hisinsistence gave her the strength to speak.
　　"There's something I must ask you," she broke out,perceiving, as she heard her words, that they were not inthe least what she had meant to say.
　　He sat still, waiting, and she pressed on: "Do such thingshappen to men often?"The quiet room seemed to resound with the longreverberations of her question. She looked away from him,and he released her and stood up.
　　"I don't know what happens to other men. Such a thing neverhappened to me..."She turned her eyes back to his face. She felt like atraveller on a giddy path between a cliff and a precipice:
　　there was nothing for it now but to go on.
　　"Had it...had it begun...before you met her in Paris?""No; a thousand times no! I've told you the facts as theywere.""All the facts?"He turned abruptly. "What do you mean?"Her throat was dry and the loud pulses drummed in hertemples.
　　"I mean--about her...Perhaps you knew...knew things abouther...beforehand."She stopped. The room had grown profoundly still. A logdropped to the hearth and broke there in a hissing shower.
　　Darrow spoke in a clear voice. "I knew nothing, absolutelynothing," he said.
　　She had the answer to her inmost doubt--to her last shamefulunavowed hope. She sat powerless under her woe.
　　He walked to the fireplace and pushed back the broken logwith his foot. A flame shot out of it, and in the upwardglare she saw his pale face, stern with misery.
　　"Is that all?" he asked.
　　She made a slight sign with her head and he came slowly backto her. "Then is this to be good-bye?"Again she signed a faint assent, and he made no effort totouch her or draw nearer. "You understand that I sha'n'tcome back?"He was looking at her, and she tried to return his look, buther eyes were blind with tears, and in dread of his seeingthem she got up and walked away. He did not follow her, andshe stood with her back to him, staring at a bowl ofcarnations on a little table strewn with books. Her tearsmagnified everything she looked at, and the streaked petalsof the carnations, their fringed edges and frail curledstamens, pressed upon her, huge and vivid. She noticedamong the books a volume of verse he had sent her fromEngland, and tried to remember whether it was before orafter...
　　She felt that he was waiting for her to speak, and at lastshe turned to him. "I shall see you to-morrow before yougo..."He made no answer.
　　She moved toward the door and he held it open for her. Shesaw his hand on the door, and his seal ring in its settingof twisted silver; and the sense of the end of all thingscame to her.
　　They walked down the drawing-rooms, between the shadowyreflections of screens and cabinets, and mounted the stairsside by side. At the end of the gallery, a lamp brought outturbid gleams in the smoky battle-piece above it.
　　On the landing Darrow stopped; his room was the nearest tothe stairs. "Good night," he said, holding out his hand.
　　As Anna gave him hers the springs of grief broke loose inher. She struggled with her sobs, and subdued them; but herbreath came unevenly, and to hide her agitation she leanedon him and pressed her face against his arm.
　　"Don't--don't," he whispered, soothing her.
　　Her troubled breathing sounded loudly in the silence of thesleeping house. She pressed her lips tight, but could notstop the nervous pulsations in her throat, and he put an armabout her and, opening his door, drew her across thethreshold of his room. The door shut behind her and she satdown on the lounge at the foot of the bed. The pulsationsin her throat had ceased, but she knew they would beginagain if she tried to speak.
　　Darrow walked away and leaned against the mantelpiece. Thered-veiled lamp shone on his books and papers, on the arm-chair by the fire, and the scattered objects on hisdressing-table. A log glimmered on the hearth, and the roomwas warm and faintly smoke-scented. It was the first timeshe had ever been in a room he lived in, among his personalpossessions and the traces of his daily usage. Every objectabout her seemed to contain a particle of himself: the wholeair breathed of him, steeping her in the sense of hisintimate presence.
　　Suddenly she thought: "This is what Sophy Viner knew"...andwith a torturing precision she pictured them alone in such ascene...Had he taken the girl to an hotel...where did peoplego in such cases? Wherever they were, the silence of nighthad been around them, and the things he used had been strewnabout the room...Anna, ashamed of dwelling on the detestedvision, stood up with a confused impulse of flight; then awave of contrary feeling arrested her and she paused withlowered head.
　　Darrow had come forward as she rose, and she perceived thathe was waiting for her to bid him good night. It was clearthat no other possibility had even brushed his mind; and thefact, for some dim reason, humiliated her. "Why not...whynot?" something whispered in her, as though his forbearance,his tacit recognition of her pride, were a slight on otherqualities she wanted him to feel in her.
　　"In the morning, then?" she heard him say.
　　"Yes, in the morning," she repeated.
　　She continued to stand in the same place, looking vaguelyabout the room. For once before they parted--since partthey must--she longed to be to him all that Sophy Viner hadbeen; but she remained rooted to the floor, unable to find aword or imagine a gesture that should express her meaning.
　　Exasperated by her helplessness, she thought: "Don't I feelthings as other women do?"Her eye fell on a note-case she had given him. It was wornat the corners with the friction of his pocket and distendedwith thickly packed papers. She wondered if he carried herletters in it, and she put her hand out and touched it.
　　All that he and she had ever felt or seen, their closeencounters of word and look, and the closer contact of theirsilences, trembled through her at the touch. She rememberedthings he had said that had been like new skies above herhead: ways he had that seemed a part of the air shebreathed. The faint warmth of her girlish love came back toher, gathering heat as it passed through her thoughts; andher heart rocked like a boat on the surge of its long longmemories. "It's because I love him in too many ways," shethought; and slowly she turned to the door.
　　She was aware that Darrow was still silently watching her,but he neither stirred nor spoke till she had reached thethreshold. Then he met her there and caught her in hisarms.
　　"Not to-night--don't tell me to-night!" he whispered; andshe leaned away from him, closing her eyes for an instant,and then slowly opening them to the flood of light in his.
Chapter 37
    Anna and Darrow, the next day, sat alone in a compartment of the Paris train.
　　Anna, when they entered it, had put herself in the farthestcorner and placed her bag on the adjoining seat. She haddecided suddenly to accompany Darrow to Paris, had evenpersuaded him to wait for a later train in order that theymight travel together. She had an intense longing to bewith him, an almost morbid terror of losing sight of him fora moment: when he jumped out of the train and ran back alongthe platform to buy a newspaper for her she felt as thoughshe should never see him again, and shivered with the coldmisery of her last journey to Paris, when she had thoughtherself parted from him forever. Yet she wanted to keep himat a distance, on the other side of the compartment, and asthe train moved out of the station she drew from her bag theletters she had thrust in it as she left the house, andbegan to glance over them so that her lowered lids shouldhide her eyes from him.
　　She was his now, his for life: there could never again beany question of sacrificing herself to Effie's welfare, orto any other abstract conception of duty. Effie of coursewould not suffer; Anna would pay for her bliss as a wife byredoubled devotion as a mother. Her scruples were notovercome; but for the time their voices were drowned in thetumultuous rumour of her happiness.
　　As she opened her letters she was conscious that Darrow'sgaze was fixed on her, and gradually it drew her eyesupward, and she drank deep of the passionate tenderness inhis. Then the blood rose to her face and she felt again thedesire to shield herself. She turned back to her lettersand her glance lit on an envelope inscribed in Owen's hand.
　　Her heart began to beat oppressively: she was in a mood whenthe simplest things seemed ominous. What could Owen have tosay to her? Only the first page was covered, and itcontained simply the announcement that, in the company of ayoung compatriot who was studying at the Beaux Arts, he hadplanned to leave for Spain the following evening.
　　"He hasn't seen her, then!" was Anna's instant thought; andher feeling was a strange compound of humiliation andrelief. The girl had kept her word, lived up to the line ofconduct she had set herself; and Anna had failed in the sameattempt. She did not reproach herself with her failure; butshe would have been happier if there had been lessdiscrepancy between her words to Sophy Viner and the actwhich had followed them. It irritated her obscurely thatthe girl should have been so much surer of her power tocarry out her purpose...
　　Anna looked up and saw that Darrow's eyes were on thenewspaper. He seemed calm and secure, almost indifferent toher presence. "Will it become a matter of course to him sosoon?" she wondered with a twinge of jealousy. She satmotionless, her eyes fixed on him, trying to make him feelthe attraction of her gaze as she felt his. It surprisedand shamed her to detect a new element in her love for him:
　　a sort of suspicious tyrannical tenderness that seemed todeprive it of all serenity. Finally he looked up, his smileenveloped her, and she felt herself his in every fibre, hisso completely and inseparably that she saw the vanity ofimagining any other fate for herself.
　　To give herself a countenance she held out Owen's letter.
　　He took it and glanced down the page, his face grown grave.
　　She waited nervously till he looked up.
　　"That's a good plan; the best thing that could happen," hesaid, a just perceptible shade of constraint in his tone.
　　"Oh, yes," she hastily assented. She was aware of a faintcurrent of relief silently circulating between them. Theywere both glad that Owen was going, that for a while hewould be out of their way; and it seemed to her horriblethat so much of the stuff of their happiness should be madeof such unavowed feelings...
　　"I shall see him this evening," she said, wishing Darrow tofeel that she was not afraid of meeting her step-son.
　　"Yes, of course; perhaps he might dine with you."The words struck her as strangely obtuse. Darrow was tomeet his Ambassador at the station on the latter's arrival,and would in all probability have to spend the evening withhim, and Anna knew he had been concerned at the thought ofhaving to leave her alone. But how could he speak in thatcareless tone of her dining with Owen? She lowered her voiceto say: "I'm afraid he's desperately unhappy."He answered, with a tinge of impatience: "It's much the bestthing that he should travel.""Yes--but don't you feel..." She broke off. She knew howhe disliked these idle returns on the irrevocable, and herfear of doing or saying what he disliked was tinged by a newinstinct of subserviency against which her pride revolted.
　　She thought to herself: "He will see the change, and growindifferent to me as he did to HER..." and for a momentit seemed to her that she was reliving the experience ofSophy Viner.
　　Darrow made no attempt to learn the end of her unfinishedsentence. He handed back Owen's letter and returned to hisnewspaper; and when he looked up from it a few minutes laterit was with a clear brow and a smile that irresistibly drewher back to happier thoughts.
　　The train was just entering a station, and a moment latertheir compartment was invaded by a commonplace couplepreoccupied with the bestowal of bulging packages. Anna, attheir approach, felt the possessive pride of the woman inlove when strangers are between herself and the man sheloves. She asked Darrow to open the window, to place herbag in the net, to roll her rug into a cushion for her feet;and while he was thus busied with her she was conscious of anew devotion in his tone, in his way of bending over her andmeeting her eyes. He went back to his seat, and they lookedat each other like lovers smiling at a happy secret.
　　Anna, before going back to Givre, had suggested Owen'smoving into her apartment, but he had preferred to remain atthe hotel to which he had sent his luggage, and on arrivingin Paris she decided to drive there at once. She wasimpatient to have the meeting over, and glad that Darrow wasobliged to leave her at the station in order to look up acolleague at the Embassy. She dreaded his seeing Owen again,and yet dared not tell him so, and to ensure his remainingaway she mentioned an urgent engagement with her dress-makerand a long list of commissions to be executed for Madame deChantelle.
　　"I shall see you to-morrow morning," she said; but hereplied with a smile that he would certainly find time tocome to her for a moment on his way back from meeting theAmbassador; and when he had put her in a cab he leanedthrough the window to press his lips to hers.
　　She blushed like a girl, thinking, half vexed, half happy:
　　"Yesterday he would not have done it..." and a dozenscarcely definable differences in his look and manner seemedall at once to be summed up in the boyish act. "After all,I'm engaged to him," she reflected, and then smiled at theabsurdity of the word. The next instant, with a pang ofself-reproach, she remembered Sophy Viner's cry: "I knew allthe while he didn't care..." "Poor thing, oh poor thing!"Anna murmured...
　　At Owen's hotel she waited in a tremor while the porter wentin search of him. Word was presently brought back that hewas in his room and begged her to come up, and as shecrossed the hall she caught sight of his portmanteaux lyingon the floor, already labelled for departure.
　　Owen sat at a table writing, his back to the door; and whenhe stood up the window was behind him, so that, in the rainyafternoon light, his features were barely discernible.
　　"Dearest--so you're really off?" she said, hesitating amoment on the threshold.
　　He pushed a chair forward, and they sat down, each waitingfor the other to speak. Finally she put some randomquestion about his travelling-companion, a slow shymeditative youth whom he had once or twice brought down toGivre. She reflected that it was natural he should havegiven this uncommunicative comrade the preference over hislivelier acquaintances, and aloud she said: "I'm so gladFred Rempson can go with you."Owen answered in the same tone, and for a few minutes theirtalk dragged itself on over a dry waste of common-places.
　　Anna noticed that, though ready enough to impart his ownplans, Owen studiously abstained from putting any questionsabout hers. It was evident from his allusions that he meantto be away for some time, and he presently asked her if shewould give instructions about packing and sending after himsome winter clothes he had left at Givre. This gave her theopportunity to say that she expected to go back within a dayor two and would attend to the matter as soon as shereturned. She added: "I came up this morning with George,who is going on to London to-morrow," intending, by the useof Darrow's Christian name, to give Owen the chance to speakof her marriage. But he made no comment, and she continuedto hear the name sounding on unfamiliarly between them.
　　The room was almost dark, and she finally stood up andglanced about for the light-switch, saying: "I can't seeyou, dear.""Oh, don't--I hate the light!" Owen exclaimed, catching herby the wrist and pushing her back into her seat. He gave anervous laugh and added: "I'm half-blind with neuralgia. Isuppose it's this beastly rain.""Yes; it will do you good to get down to Spain."She asked if he had the remedies the doctor had given himfor a previous attack, and on his replying that he didn'tknow what he'd done with the stuff, she sprang up, offeringto go to the chemist's. It was a relief to have somethingto do for him, and she knew from his "Oh, thanks--wouldyou?" that it was a relief to him to have a pretext for notdetaining her. His natural impulse would have been todeclare that he didn't want any drugs, and would be allright in no time; and his acquiescence showed her howprofoundly he felt the uselessness of their trying toprolong their talk. His face was now no more than a whiteblur in the dusk, but she felt its indistinctness as a veildrawn over aching intensities of expression. "He knows...heknows..." she said to herself, and wondered whether thetruth had been revealed to him by some corroborative fact orby the sheer force of divination.
　　He had risen also, and was clearly waiting for her to go,and she turned to the door, saying: "I'll be back in amoment.""Oh, don't come up again, please!" He paused, embarrassed.
　　"I mean--I may not be here. I've got to go and pick upRempson, and see about some final things with him."She stopped on the threshold with a sinking heart. He meantthis to be their leave-taking, then--and he had not evenasked her when she was to be married, or spoken of seeingher again before she set out for the other side of theworld.
　　"Owen!" she cried, and turned back.
　　He stood mutely before her in the dimness.
　　"You haven't told me how long you're to be gone.""How long? Oh, you see...that's rather vague...I hatedefinite dates, you know..."He paused and she saw he did not mean to help her out. Shetried to say: "You'll be here for my wedding?" but could notbring the words to her lips. Instead she murmured: "In sixweeks I shall be going too..." and he rejoined, as if he hadexpected the announcement and prepared his answer: "Oh, bythat time, very likely...""At any rate, I won't say good-bye," she stammered, feelingthe tears beneath her veil.
　　"No, no; rather not!" he declared; but he made no movement,and she went up and threw her arms about him. "You'll writeme, won't you?""Of course, of course----"Her hands slipped down into his, and for a minute they heldeach other dumbly in the darkness; then he gave a vaguelaugh and said: "It's really time to light up." He pressedthe electric button with one hand while with the other heopened the door; and she passed out without daring to turnback, lest the light on his face should show her what shefeared to see.
Chapter 38
    Anna drove to the chemist's for Owen's remedy. On the wayshe stopped her cab at a book-shop, and emerged from itladen with literature. She knew what would interest Owen,and what he was likely to have read, and she had made herchoice among the newest publications with the promptness ofa discriminating reader. But on the way back to the hotelshe was overcome by the irony of adding this mental panaceato the other. There was something grotesque and almostmocking in the idea of offering a judicious selection ofliterature to a man setting out on such a journey. "Heknows...he knows..." she kept on repeating; and giving theporter the parcel from the chemist's she drove away withoutleaving the books.
　　She went to her apartment, whither her maid had precededher. There was a fire in the drawing-room and the tea-tablestood ready by the hearth. The stormy rain beat against theuncurtained windows, and she thought of Owen, who would soonbe driving through it to the station, alone with his bitterthoughts. She had been proud of the fact that he had alwayssought her help in difficult hours; and now, in the mostdifficult of all, she was the one being to whom he could notturn. Between them, henceforth, there would always be thewall of an insurmountable silence...She strained her achingthoughts to guess how the truth had come to him. Had he seenthe girl, and had she told him? Instinctively, Anna rejectedthis conjecture. But what need was there of assuming anexplicit statement, when every breath they had drawn for thelast weeks had been charged with the immanent secret? As shelooked back over the days since Darrow's first arrival atGivre she perceived that at no time had any one deliberatelyspoken, or anything been accidentally disclosed. The truthhad come to light by the force of its irresistible pressure;and the perception gave her a startled sense of hiddenpowers, of a chaos of attractions and repulsions far beneaththe ordered surfaces of intercourse. She looked back withmelancholy derision on her old conception of life, as a kindof well-lit and well policed suburb to dark places one neednever know about. Here they were, these dark places, in herown bosom, and henceforth she would always have to traversethem to reach the beings she loved best!
　　She was still sitting beside the untouched tea-table whenshe heard Darrow's voice in the hall. She started up,saying to herself: "I must tell him that Owen knows..." butwhen the door opened and she saw his face, still lit by thesame smile of boyish triumph, she felt anew the uselessnessof speaking...Had he ever supposed that Owen would not know?
　　Probably, from the height of his greater experience, he hadseen long since that all that happened was inevitable; andthe thought of it, at any rate, was clearly not weighing onhim now.
　　He was already dressed for the evening, and as he cametoward her he said: "The Ambassador's booked for an officialdinner and I'm free after all. Where shall we dine?"Anna had pictured herself sitting alone all the evening withher wretched thoughts, and the fact of having to put themout of her mind for the next few hours gave her an immediatesensation of relief. Already her pulses were dancing to thetune of Darrow's, and as they smiled at each other shethought: "Nothing can ever change the fact that I belong tohim.""Where shall we dine?" he repeated gaily, and she named awell-known restaurant for which she had once heard himexpress a preference. But as she did so she fancied she sawa shadow on his face, and instantly she said to herself: "Itwas THERE he went with her!""Oh, no, not there, after all!" she interrupted herself; andnow she was sure his colour deepened.
　　"Where shall it be, then?"She noticed that he did not ask the reason of her change,and this convinced her that she had guessed the truth, andthat he knew she had guessed it. "He will always know whatI am thinking, and he will never dare to ask me," shethought; and she saw between them the same insurmountablewall of silence as between herself and Owen, a wall of glassthrough which they could watch each other's faintest motionsbut which no sound could ever traverse...
　　They drove to a restaurant on the Boulevard, and there, intheir intimate corner of the serried scene, the sense ofwhat was unspoken between them gradually ceased to oppressher. He looked so light-hearted and handsome, soingenuously proud of her, so openly happy at being with her,that no other fact could seem real in his presence. He hadlearned that the Ambassador was to spend two days in Paris,and he had reason to hope that in consequence his owndeparture for London would be deferred. He was exhilaratedby the prospect of being with Anna for a few hours longer,and she did not ask herself if his exhilaration were a signof insensibility, for she was too conscious of his power ofswaying her moods not to be secretly proud of affecting his.
　　They lingered for some time over the fruit and coffee, andwhen they rose to go Darrow suggested that, if she feltdisposed for the play, they were not too late for the secondpart of the programme at one of the smaller theatres.
　　His mention of the hour recalled Owen to her thoughts. Shesaw his train rushing southward through the storm, and, in acorner of the swaying compartment, his face, white andindistinct as it had loomed on her in the rainy twilight.
　　It was horrible to be thus perpetually paying for herhappiness!
　　Darrow had called for a theatrical journal, and he presentlylooked up from it to say: "I hear the second play at theAthenee is amusing."It was on Anna's lips to acquiesce; but as she was about tospeak she wondered if it were not at the Athenee that Owenhad seen Darrow with Sophy Viner. She was not sure he hadeven mentioned the theatre, but the mere possibility wasenough to darken her sky. It was hateful to her to think ofaccompanying Darrow to places where the girl had been withhim. She tried to reason away this scruple, she evenreminded herself with a bitter irony that whenever she wasin Darrow's arms she was where the girl had been before her--but she could not shake off her superstitious dread ofbeing with him in any of the scenes of the Parisian episode.
　　She replied that she was too tired for the play, and theydrove back to her apartment. At the foot of the stairs shehalf-turned to wish him good night, but he appeared not tonotice her gesture and followed her up to her door.
　　"This is ever so much better than the theatre," he said asthey entered the drawing-room.
　　She had crossed the room and was bending over the hearth tolight the fire. She knew he was approaching her, and thatin a moment he would have drawn the cloak from her shouldersand laid his lips on her neck, just below the gathered-uphair. These privileges were his and, however deferently andtenderly he claimed them, the joyous ease of his mannermarked a difference and proclaimed a right.
　　"After the theatre they came home like this," she thought;and at the same instant she felt his hands on her shouldersand shrank back.
　　"Don't--oh, don't!" she cried, drawing her cloak about her.
　　She saw from his astonished stare that her face must bequivering with pain.
　　"Anna! What on earth is the matter?""Owen knows!" she broke out, with a confused desire tojustify herself.
　　Darrow's countenance changed. "Did he tell you so? What didhe say?""Nothing! I knew it from the things he didn't say.""You had a talk with him this afternoon?""Yes: for a few minutes. I could see he didn't want me tostay."She had dropped into a chair, and sat there huddled, stillholding her cloak about her shoulders.
　　Darrow did not dispute her assumption, and she noticed thathe expressed no surprise. He sat down at a little distancefrom her, turning about in his fingers the cigar-case he haddrawn out as they came in. At length he said: "Had he seenMiss Viner?"She shrank from the sound of the name. "No...I don't thinkso...I'm sure he hadn't..."They remained silent, looking away from one another. FinallyDarrow stood up and took a few steps across the room. Hecame back and paused before her, his eyes on her face.
　　"I think you ought to tell me what you mean to do."She raised her head and gave him back his look. "Nothing Ido can help Owen!""No; but things can't go on like this." He paused, as if tomeasure his words. "I fill you with aversion," heexclaimed.
　　She started up, half-sobbing. "No--oh, no!""Poor child--you can't see your face!"She lifted her hands as if to hide it, and turning away fromhim bowed her head upon the mantel-shelf. She felt that hewas standing a little way behind her, but he made no attemptto touch her or come nearer.
　　"I know you've felt as I've felt," he said in a low voice--"that we belong to each other and that nothing can alterthat. But other thoughts come, and you can't banish them.
　　Whenever you see me you remember...you associate me withthings you abhor...You've been generous--immeasurably.
　　You've given me all the chances a woman could; but if it'sonly made you suffer, what's the use?"She turned to him with a tear-stained face. "It hasn't onlydone that.""Oh, no! I know...There've been moments..." He took her handand raised it to his lips. "They'll be with me as long as Ilive. But I can't see you paying such a price for them.
　　I'm not worth what I'm costing you."She continued to gaze at him through tear-dilated eyes; andsuddenly she flung out the question: "Wasn't it the Atheneeyou took her to that evening?""Anna--Anna!""Yes; I want to know now: to know everything. Perhaps thatwill make me forget. I ought to have made you tell mebefore. Wherever we go, I imagine you've been there withher...I see you together. I want to know how it began,where you went, why you left her...I can't go on in thisdarkness any longer!"She did not know what had prompted her passionate outburst,but already she felt lighter, freer, as if at last the evilspell were broken. "I want to know everything," sherepeated. "It's the only way to make me forget."After she had ceased speaking Darrow remained where he was,his arms folded, his eyes lowered, immovable. She waited,her gaze on his face.
　　"Aren't you going to tell me?""No."The blood rushed to her temples. "You won't? Why not?""If I did, do you suppose you'd forget THAT?""Oh--" she moaned, and turned away from him.
　　"You see it's impossible," he went on. "I've done a thing Iloathe, and to atone for it you ask me to do another. Whatsort of satisfaction would that give you? It would putsomething irremediable between us."She leaned her elbow against the mantel-shelf and hid herface in her hands. She had the sense that she was vainlythrowing away her last hope of happiness, yet she could donothing, think of nothing, to save it. The conjectureflashed through her: "Should I be at peace if I gave himup?" and she remembered the desolation of the days after shehad sent him away, and understood that that hope was vain.
　　The tears welled through her lids and ran slowly downbetween her fingers.
　　"Good-bye," she heard him say, and his footsteps turned tothe door.
　　She tried to raise her head, but the weight of her despairbowed it down. She said to herself: "This is the end...hewon't try to appeal to me again..." and she remained in asort of tranced rigidity, perceiving without feeling thefateful lapse of the seconds. Then the cords that bound herseemed to snap, and she lifted her head and saw him going.
　　"Why, he's mine--he's mine! He's no one else's!" His facewas turned to her and the look in his eyes swept away allher terrors. She no longer understood what had prompted hersenseless outcry; and the mortal sweetness of loving himbecame again the one real fact in the world.
Chapter 39
    Anna, the next day, woke to a humiliated memory of the previous evening.
　　Darrow had been right in saying that their sacrifice wouldbenefit no one; yet she seemed dimly to discern that therewere obligations not to be tested by that standard. Sheowed it, at any rate, as much to his pride as to hers toabstain from the repetition of such scenes; and she hadlearned that it was beyond her power to do so while theywere together. Yet when he had given her the chance to freeherself, everything had vanished from her mind but the blindfear of losing him; and she saw that he and she were asprofoundly and inextricably bound together as two trees withinterwoven roots.
　　For a long time she brooded on her plight, vaguely consciousthat the only escape from it must come from some externalchance. And slowly the occasion shaped itself in her mind.
　　It was Sophy Viner only who could save her--Sophy Viner onlywho could give her back her lost serenity. She would seekthe girl out and tell her that she had given Darrow up; andthat step once taken there would be no retracing it, and shewould perforce have to go forward alone.
　　Any pretext for action was a kind of anodyne, and shedespatched her maid to the Farlows' with a note asking ifMiss Viner would receive her. There was a long delay beforethe maid returned, and when at last she appeared it was witha slip of paper on which an address was written, and averbal message to the effect that Miss Viner had left somedays previously, and was staying with her sister in a hotelnear the Place de l'Etoile. The maid added that Mrs.
　　Farlow, on the plea that Miss Viner's plans were uncertain,had at first made some difficulty about giving thisinformation; and Anna guessed that the girl had left herfriends' roof, and instructed them to withhold her address,with the object of avoiding Owen. "She's kept faith withherself and I haven't," Anna mused; and the thought was afresh incentive to action.
　　Darrow had announced his intention of coming soon afterluncheon, and the morning was already so far advanced thatAnna, still mistrustful of her strength, decided to driveimmediately to the address Mrs. Farlow had given. On theway there she tried to recall what she had heard of SophyViner's sister, but beyond the girl's enthusiastic report ofthe absent Laura's loveliness she could remember onlycertain vague allusions of Mrs. Farlow's to her artisticendowments and matrimonial vicissitudes. Darrow hadmentioned her but once, and in the briefest terms, as havingapparently very little concern for Sophy's welfare, andbeing, at any rate, too geographically remote to give herany practical support; and Anna wondered what chance hadbrought her to her sister's side at this conjunction. Mrs.
　　Farlow had spoken of her as a celebrity (in what line Annafailed to recall); but Mrs. Farlow's celebrities werelegion, and the name on the slip of paper--Mrs. McTarvie-Birch--did not seem to have any definite association withfame.
　　While Anna waited in the dingy vestibule of the HotelChicago she had so distinct a vision of what she meant tosay to Sophy Viner that the girl seemed already to be beforeher; and her heart dropped from all the height of itscourage when the porter, after a long delay, returned withthe announcement that Miss Viner was no longer in the hotel.
　　Anna, doubtful if she understood, asked if he merely meantthat the young lady was out at the moment; but he repliedthat she had gone away the day before. Beyond this he hadno information to impart, and after a moment's hesitationAnna sent him back to enquire if Mrs. McTarvie-Birch wouldreceive her. She reflected that Sophy had probably pledgedher sister to the same secrecy as Mrs. Farlow, and that apersonal appeal to Mrs. Birch might lead to less negativeresults.
　　There was another long interval of suspense before theporter reappeared with an affirmative answer; and a thirdwhile an exiguous and hesitating lift bore her up past asuccession of shabby landings.
　　When the last was reached, and her guide had directed herdown a winding passage that smelt of sea-going luggage, shefound herself before a door through which a strong odour oftobacco reached her simultaneously with the sounds of asuppressed altercation. Her knock was followed by asilence, and after a minute or two the door was opened by ahandsome young man whose ruffled hair and general air ofcreased disorder led her to conclude that he had just risenfrom a long-limbed sprawl on a sofa strewn with tumbledcushions. This sofa, and a grand piano bearing a basket offaded roses, a biscuit-tin and a devastated breakfast tray,almost filled the narrow sitting-room, in the remainingcorner of which another man, short, swarthy and humble, satexamining the lining of his hat.
　　Anna paused in doubt; but on her naming Mrs. Birch the youngman politely invited her to enter, at the same time castingan impatient glance at the mute spectator in the background.
　　The latter, raising his eyes, which were round and bulging,fixed them, not on the young man but on Anna, whom, for amoment, he scrutinized as searchingly as the interior of hishat. Under his gaze she had the sense of being minutelycatalogued and valued; and the impression, when he finallyrose and moved toward the door, of having been accepted as abetter guarantee than he had had any reason to hope for. Onthe threshold his glance crossed that of the young man in anexchange of intelligence as full as it was rapid; and thisbrief scene left Anna so oddly enlightened that she felt nosurprise when her companion, pushing an arm-chair forward,sociably asked her if she wouldn't have a cigarette. Herpolite refusal provoked the remark that he would, if she'dno objection; and while he groped for matches in his loosepockets, and behind the photographs and letters crowding thenarrow mantel-shelf, she ventured another enquiry for Mrs.
　　Birch.
　　"Just a minute," he smiled; "I think the masseur's withher." He spoke in a smooth denationalized English, which,like the look in his long-lashed eyes and the promptness ofhis charming smile, suggested a long training in all thearts of expediency. Having finally discovered a match-boxon the floor beside the sofa, he lit his cigarette anddropped back among the cushions; and on Anna's remarkingthat she was sorry to disturb Mrs. Birch he replied thatthat was all right, and that she always kept everybodywaiting.
　　After this, through the haze of his perpetually renewedcigarettes, they continued to chat for some time ofindifferent topics; but when at last Anna again suggestedthe possibility of her seeing Mrs. Birch he rose from hiscorner with a slight shrug, and murmuring: "She's perfectlyhopeless," lounged off through an inner door.
　　Anna was still wondering when and in what conjunction ofcircumstances the much-married Laura had acquired a partnerso conspicuous for his personal charms, when the young manreturned to announce: "She says it's all right, if you don'tmind seeing her in bed."He drew aside to let Anna pass, and she found herself in adim untidy scented room, with a pink curtain pinned acrossits single window, and a lady with a great deal of fair hairand uncovered neck smiling at her from a pink bed on whichan immense powder-puff trailed.
　　"You don't mind, do you? He costs such a frightful lot thatI can't afford to send him off," Mrs. Birch explained,extending a thickly-ringed hand to Anna, and leaving her indoubt as to whether the person alluded to were hermasseur or her husband. Before a reply was possible therewas a convulsive stir beneath the pink expanse, andsomething that resembled another powder-puff hurled itselfat Anna with a volley of sounds like the popping ofLilliputian champagne corks. Mrs. Birch, flinging herselfforward, gasped out: "If you'd just give him acaramel...there, in that box on the dressing-table...it'sthe only earthly thing to stop him..." and when Anna hadproffered this sop to her assailant, and he had withdrawnwith it beneath the bedspread, his mistress sank back with alaugh.
　　"Isn't he a beauty? The Prince gave him to me down at Nicethe other day--but he's perfectly awful," she confessed,beaming intimately on her visitor. In the roseate penumbraof the bed-curtains she presented to Anna's startled gaze anodd chromo-like resemblance to Sophy Viner, or a suggestion,rather, of what Sophy Viner might, with the years and inspite of the powder-puff, become. Larger, blonder, heavier-featured, she yet had glances and movements thatdisturbingly suggested what was freshest and most engagingin the girl; and as she stretched her bare plump arm acrossthe bed she seemed to be pulling back the veil from dingydistances of family history.
　　"Do sit down, if there's a place to sit on," she cordiallyadvised; adding, as Anna took the edge of a chair hung withmiscellaneous raiment: "My singing takes so much time that Idon't get a chance to walk the fat off--that's the worst ofbeing an artist."Anna murmured an assent. "I hope it hasn't inconveniencedyou to see me; I told Mr. Birch--""Mr. WHO?" the recumbent beauty asked; and then: "Oh,JIMMY!" she faintly laughed, as if more for her ownenlightenment than Anna's.
　　The latter continued eagerly: "I understand from Mrs. Farlowthat your sister was with you, and I ventured to come upbecause I wanted to ask you when I should have a chance offinding her."Mrs. McTarvie-Birch threw back her head with a long stare.
　　"Do you mean to say the idiot at the door didn't tell you?
　　Sophy went away last night.""Last night?" Anna echoed. A sudden terror had possessedher. Could it be that the girl had tricked them all andgone with Owen? The idea was incredible, yet it took suchhold of her that she could hardly steady her lips to say:
　　"The porter did tell me, but I thought perhaps he wasmistaken. Mrs. Farlow seemed to think that I should findher here.""It was all so sudden that I don't suppose she had time tolet the Farlows know. She didn't get Mrs. Murrett's wiretill yesterday, and she just pitched her things into a trunkand rushed----""Mrs. Murrett?""Why, yes. Sophy's gone to India with Mrs. Murrett; they'reto meet at Brindisi," Sophy's sister said with a calm smile.
　　Anna sat motionless, gazing at the disordered room, the pinkbed, the trivial face among the pillows.
　　Mrs. McTarvie-Birch pursued: "They had a fearful kick-uplast spring--I daresay you knew about it--but I told Sophyshe'd better lump it, as long as the old woman was willingto...As an artist, of course, it's perfectly impossible forme to have her with me...""Of course," Anna mechanically assented.
　　Through the confused pain of her thoughts she was hardlyaware that Mrs. Birch's explanations were still continuing.
　　"Naturally I didn't altogether approve of her going back tothat beast of a woman. I said all I could...I told her shewas a fool to chuck up such a place as yours. But Sophy'srestless--always was--and she's taken it into her head she'drather travel..."Anna rose from her seat, groping for some formula of leave-taking. The pushing back of her chair roused the whitedog's smouldering animosity, and he drowned his mistress'sfurther confidences in another outburst of hysterics.
　　Through the tumult Anna signed an inaudible farewell, andMrs. Birch, having momentarily succeeded in suppressing herpet under a pillow, called out: "Do come again! I'd love tosing to you."Anna murmured a word of thanks and turned to the door. Asshe opened it she heard her hostess crying after her:
　　"Jimmy! Do you hear me? Jimmy BRANCE!" and then, therebeing no response from the person summoned: "DO tell himhe must go and call the lift for you!"