FEATHERS walked around the following afternoon. "I've left the car to be tuned up," he explained as he and Marie shook hands. "And I've got a brilliant idea for to-morrow!" He looked round the room. "Where is Miss Chester?"

"Lying down. The sun this morning gave her a headache."

"Well, do you care to go on the river to-morrow?"

Marie's eyes sparkled.

"Oh, I should love it! In a punt?"

"We can have a punt, if you like; I'll wire to-day for it, and we can drive down and take our lunch. Do you know the river?"

She laughed.

"I've seen it at London Bridge and once at Putney—that's all."

"You've never seen Wargrave?"

"No."

"Good! We'll go there——" Feathers hesitated. "Do you think your aunt would care to come?" He tried to put enthusiasm into the question, but not very successfully. Marie shook her head.

"I am sure she would not. She does not like the river, and she is horribly afraid of small boats. She thinks they are bound to upset."

"They are all right if you know how to manage them. It's all fixed up, then? I'll order the lunch——"

164 She interrupted quickly: "Oh, I can do that; you don't want to have all the bother."

"It's no bother to me; I was always chief cook and bottle washer when Chris and I camped out together. As a matter of fact, lunch is ordered already."

"You were so sure I would come?"

"I hoped you would."

She gave a little sigh of eager anticipation.

"Oh, I should love it."

"Let's hope it will keep fine." Feathers glanced towards the window. "It looks promising. Wear something that won't spoil—the river ruins good clothes."

He took up his hat.

"Oh, won't you stay to tea?" Marie asked disappointedly. "It will be here in a moment."

He hesitated, then sat down again.

"Well—I did not mean to, but as I've been asked——"

Marie laughed.

"Do you always do as you're asked?"

"It depends on who asks me."

She rang the bell for tea.

"And please tell my aunt that Mr. Dakers is here," she said to the maid.

She was always very punctilious about telling Miss Chester whenever Feathers called.

"Have you heard from Chris?" Feathers asked suddenly.

"Yes—last night. He is at Windermere—on his way home."

Feathers looked up quickly.

"Then he may be here at any time?"

Marie shrugged her shoulders. "I don't expect him yet," she said in rather a hard voice. "If he likes Windermere, I dare say he will stay for a week or so."

There was a little silence.

"Of course if he should turn up to-morrow, our little outing must be postponed," Feathers said quietly.

Marie did not answer, and he repeated his words.

"Yes, of course," she agreed then.

She looked at him critically. Had he begun to dress better since he 165 came back to London? Or was it just that she was getting used to him, she wondered? She would have been surprised if she had known the time and trouble Feathers spent on his appearance each morning before he came to see her, and how he cursed his ugliness and ungainliness every time he caught sight of himself in a glass.

He turned up in white flannels the following morning, with a light dust coat and a soft felt hat.

Miss Chester refused to come, as Marie had prophesied.

"I detest the river," she said strenuously, "And after your dreadful experience, Marie, I wonder you have the pluck to go near water again."

"I shall be quite safe with Mr. Dakers," Marie answered, "and it's such a lovely day! Do change your mind and come, dear."

But Miss Chester would not be persuaded.

"And don't be late home," was her last injunction. "I shall be nervous and unhappy about you till you are safely back again."

"I am going to enjoy myself," Marie said. "I am quite sure we are going to have a lovely day." She ran upstairs to put on her hat. She had carried out Feathers' instructions by choosing a white linen frock and a Panama hat, and white shoes and stockings. She looked very young and dainty. Feathers thought, as she came running down the stairs.

"You will want a coat," he said quietly. "It may rain."

"Rain!" she echoed, scornfully. She made a little grimace at him. "Why, there isn't a cloud in the sky." But she went back obediently for the coat, and to say good-bye to Miss Chester.

"And, oh, my dear, do be careful!" the old lady urged anxiously. "Whatever shall I say to Chris if anything happens?"

"Nothing will happen," said Marie, "except that we shall thoroughly enjoy ourselves."

She shut the drawing-room door behind her, and stopped for a moment 166 in the hall to peep at herself in the glass.

She had not looked so well for a long time. She turned away with a little sigh of contentment, and at that moment a telegraph boy ran up the steps to the front door.

Seeing Marie, he did not ring the bell, but handed her the yellow envelope. It was addressed to "Lawless," and Marie tore it open apprehensively.

"Home this afternoon—Chris."

Marie's heart gave a great leap, then seemed to stand still.

"No answer," she said mechanically.

She watched the boy go down the steps and mount his bicycle at the curb, then she read the short message again.

"Home this afternoon—Chris."

This meant that she could not have her day on the river—that she must tell Feathers she could not go with him.

He was outside in the road, tinkering with the car, and had not seen the telegram delivered. With a sudden impulse Marie thrust it into her frock. Why should she stay at home just because after all these weeks Chris chose to come back? Why should she give up a day's enjoyment with a man who really enjoyed her society just to be hurt and ignored and made to suffer afresh?

Feather called to her from the road: "Are you ready, Mrs. Lawless?"

"Yes, coming now." She ran down the steps, her cheeks flushed with a defiant sense of guilt. It was the first time in her life that she had done anything mean or shabby, but her heart had grown hard during the past days, and it no longer seemed a dreadful matter that she should not trouble to be present when Chris came home.

There was a large picnic basket strapped to the back of the car, and Feathers told her laughingly that he had brought a magnum of champagne.

Marie opened her brown eyes wide.

167 "Gracious! Who do you think will drink it all?"

"Oh, I think we can, between us, quite easily. We've got all day before us, you know."

Marie leaned back luxuriously. She had resolutely pushed all thought of Chris from her mind and she did not mean to think of him till they got back home again.

"I'm going to enjoy myself, and not worry about anything," she said recklessly.

Feathers looked down at her. "Do you worry about things?" he asked gently. "Don't do it, Mrs. Lawless! It brings wrinkles and chases away smiles."

"Does it? How do you know?"

"I suppose I have eyes like other people," he answered.

"Aunt Madge would not come, you see; I was sure she would not," Marie said presently. "And she has quite made up her mind that I am going to be drowned and that she will never see me any more."

"I don't think she need worry."

"That's what I told her; I said I knew I should be quite safe with you."

"Thank you." She looked up, surprised by the gravity of his voice, but he was not looking at her, and his ugly profile was a little hard and stern.

It was a silent drive, but Marie gave a little cry of delight, when at last a curve in the road brought them within sight of the river.

"There's an inn further down the road where we can leave the car and get a punt," Feathers said. "Then well get up in the backwater and have lunch."

Marie's face was glowing and she looked like a child who has unexpectedly come across an illuminated Christmas tree.

"I never knew there were such lovely places in the world," she said. When Feathers had run the car into the yard adjoining the inn she went down to the river, and stood on the small, rough wooden landing-stage, looking down at the silently flowing water with dreamy eyes.

It was so peaceful, so restful, with the soft sound of the breeze in the trees and tall rushes, and the sensuous lap of the water 168 against the boats moored to the landing-stage.

And again the thought went through her mind—what a lovely world it would be if one could only have things just a little, little bit different!

Feathers brought an armful of cushions from the boathouse, put the luncheon hamper on board, and stripped off his coat preparatory to starting business.

He pushed off from the landing-stage, and let the punt drift down stream. He was a square, strong figure standing up against the cloudless sky, and a thought that had often crossed Marie's mind came again as she looked at him: What a kind man he could be to some woman, and how happy some woman could be with him!

After all, what did a handsome face matter when it came down to the difficult business of every-day life? It was kindness that counted and sympathy and gentleness and understanding. Her brown eyes grew wistful as she watched his ugly, preoccupied face.

Here was a man who disliked all women even as Chris did, and yet he had found it possible to be kind to her, to befriend her in her loneliness and perplexity. She felt that she could not be sufficiently grateful to him.

Feathers did not speak till they had left the main stream and slipped into the wonderful backwater that lies between Wargrave and Henley. Marie had never seen anything like it in her life. She held her breath in sheer delight as she lay back amongst the cushions and looked up at the canopy of leaves overhead.

There were very few people about. Now and then a laugh reached them across the water or the sound of row-locks, and once a big water rat scurried past them along the margin of rushes and reeds, staring at them for a second with dark, bright eyes before it plunged and disappeared.

Feathers drew in the punt pole and took a paddle.

"Well, how do you like it?" he asked.

Her brown eyes shone.

"I never knew there was anything so lovely in England," she said.

169 "That is the mistake so many people make," he answered. "They rush off abroad with a party of dreadful tourists and tire themselves out in order to see some musty old museum or cathedral, and never trouble to see the beauty spots of their own country. Look behind you now!"

Marie turned her head obediently. They were nearing an old bridge, built so low down to the water that it was only possible for a boat to pass beneath it if the occupants bent their heads.

"We'll go through and tie up on the other side," Feathers said. "Mind your head." He guided the boat skillfully through and out on the other side.

Marie laughed and raised her head. Her soft hair was all roughened by the cushions, and one long strand had tumbled down over her shoulder.

"How old did you tell me you were?" Feathers asked rather grimly. "Nineteen or nine?"

"Nearly twenty," Marie said indignantly.

"I refuse to believe it," he answered. "You are only just out of the schoolroom with that curl hanging down." He indicated the fallen lock of hair and Marie laughed and blushed as she hurriedly fastened it up.

They tied up to a bank, and Feathers set out the lunch.

Marie wanted to do it, but he said no, it was her holiday, and she was not to work at all.

"Look upon me as a sort of serf, or vassal!" he said, laughingly. "Order me about; put your foot on my neck, for to-day I am your humble servant."

"But only for to-day!" said Marie, with a quick little sigh.

He looked up sharply.

"What do you mean?"

She answered quite innocently:

"I only meant that I wish good things did not last such a little while. I've never been so happy as I am now."

"Never, Mrs. Lawless? Isn't that rather a big order?"

She sat up, leaning her chin in the palm of her hand.

170 "It's true," she said quietly. "I used to dream about a lot of silly things that could never really come true, but this"—she looked at the beauty of the peaceful scene surrounding them.

"I never thought I could be so—so peacefully happy as I am now."

Feathers had been opening a tin of tongue, and the knife slipped suddenly, cutting deeply into his hand.

He gave a little exclamation of annoyance, and Marie started up. "Oh, you have hurt yourself."

"Nothing, nothing at all." He dipped his hand into the water and hurriedly bound it round with a handkerchief. "Heavens, don't look so scared! It's nothing to what has happened when we've been camping out! The tent we were sleeping in collapsed on us one night, and we were nearly smothered. I should have been, but for Chris—he hauled me out."

"Did he?" her face grew wistful. "Chris is very fond of you," she said.

Feathers shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, we get on very well together."

He went on preparing the luncheon, and when it was ready he rose to his feet and made her a salaam.

"The feast is served, fair lady!"

He had tied the champagne bottle to the side of the boat, letting it dangle in the water, and he drew it carefully up and released the cork, letting it fly up into the trees overhead with a tremendous report.

Marie laughed like a child; she was so happy to-day that everything pleased and amused her.

Feathers filled two glasses and handed one to her, holding out his own in a toast.

"To your future happiness," he said gravely.

Marie flushed a little.

"To yours," she said tremulously. "And—and to many happy returns of this very happy day."

Feathers winced as if she had hurt him, but he answered lightly:

"Well, why not? We can come again to-morrow if you like? Wise 171 people take advantage of the sunshine in this country."

Her face paled; she put the glass down untouched. Then abruptly she drew the crumpled telegram from her frock and gave it to him.

"Mr. Dakers, this came this morning."

He took it wonderingly; read it, and handed it back.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. She did not answer, and he went on almost angrily: "You should have stayed at home. Mrs. Lawless, why didn't you tell me? We could easily have cancelled our arrangements."

She answered him then, in a little shamed whisper:

"Because—because I wanted to come with you."

And there followed a long silence, unbroken save for the soft cooing of a wood pigeon in the trees overhead.

Feathers was kneeling on the grassy bank to which the punt was moored, his head a little downbent, his brows furiously frowning.

All her life Marie remembered him as he looked then, such a big, very masculine man, with his great shoulders and ugly head, his jaw thrust out in an obstinate line, and yet—there seemed to be something strangely helpless about him, something that seemed to contradict the angry tone in which he had just spoken.

Then, quite suddenly he looked up and their eyes met, Marie's hot and ashamed, though she could not have explained why, and his trying so hard not to betray the agitation that was rending him.

"Are you angry with me?" she faltered. "Oh, don't be angry with me." And, covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.

Feathers got up abruptly and stood with averted head staring down stream.

The river was flowing swiftly just there, and it was carrying with it a little toy boat which someone had twisted out of a newspaper.

Feathers followed its passage mechanically. It seemed symbolical of his life during the past ten years, during which he had just allowed himself to drift helplessly with the tide, until now, when 172 he stood face to face with the disaster of the hidden rock of a girl's simplicity and desperate unhappiness.

Feathers was no fool, and he knew quite well that Marie's tears were the outcome of all she had suffered since her marriage.

She had looked for love and happiness, and had found neither. She had been flung back on herself and his friendship, and in her gratitude for the little he had done to try and cheer her she had magnified her affection for him.

He did some swift thinking as he stood there, his face resolutely turned from her as she sat crying desolately.

Every instinct of his manhood was to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he knew that such happiness was not for him—could never be for him.

After a moment he went back to the deserted lunch. His face was white, but he made a desperate effort to speak cheerily.

"And this is the day we were going to enjoy so much! You will never come out with me any more now I have been such a brute. Mrs. Lawless, won't you have some of this jam sandwich before the wasps consume it all?"

Marie dried her tears, and laughed and cried again.

"I'm so sorry; I don't know why I was such a baby. No; don't look at me; I'm so ashamed."

She leaned over the side of the punt and bathed her eyes in the cool water, drying them on Feathers' silk handkerchief, which he put within her reach.

He went on calmly serving out the lunch and talking about anything that came into his head.

"Last time I was here, it came on to pour cats and dogs just as we'd started lunch! There was lobster mayonnaise, I remember, and a fine mess it was in. We're luckier to-day. There isn't a cloud. Do you like cream? Yes, I remember you said you did when we lunched at Mrs. Costin's inn."

He gave Marie plenty of time to recover herself. A great sigh of relief escaped him when at last she looked up and smiled.

173 "All right now?"

"Yes."

"And I'm quite forgiven?"

"It wasn't your fault! You know it wasn't."

"Well, we won't argue! Mrs. Lawless, if you don't drink that champagne I shall have to come and make you."

Marie drank some of it, and it did her good. The color stole slowly back to her cheeks.

They talked trivialities for the remainder of the meal, and then Feathers gravely washed up and stowed the remains of the feast away in the hamper.

"We'll go on to Henley for tea," he said, "and you'll see the houseboats. I came down to one three years ago with a house party. Chris and Atkins were there as well. By the way, I had a note from Atkins last night."

"Did you?" Marie flushed. "I should like to see him again," she said.

"Well, why not? Now Chris is home we must make up some dinner parties and theatre parties."

She looked away. "He's not home yet."

"No; but he will be. You'll find him looking for you when we get back, and ready to break my head for having taken you out."

"Do you think so?" Her voice was coldly contemptuous, and Feathers hurriedly tried another subject.

"The thing to do in a punt is to go to sleep. Have you ever slept in a punt in a backwater like this? No? Then you've missed half the joys of life. Come out on the bank a minute and let me arrange those cushions."

He held his hand to her, but she avoided it, and stood watching silently as he made a great business of plumping up the cushions and spreading his coat for her to lie on.

"There you are! Isn't that great? Mind, you'll upset the whole show!"

He tightened the moorings a little and looked down at her with a strained smile.

Marie had gone back to the punt and dragged a cushion beneath her dark head.

174 Feathers sat down on the grass, his back to a tree, and produced a pipe which he gravely lit.

"I've had this pipe four years," he said. "Chris says it's a disgrace to civilization, but I like it! You don't mind if I smoke?"

"No, please do."

She closed her eyes, not from any wish to sleep, but to avoid talking. There was a little fear at the back of her mind which she could not capture or recognize.

Why had she cried? Why was it now that when Chris was on his way home—perhaps was already in London—there was no joy in her heart, only dread?

It was very still there in the backwater. Now and then a bird darted down from the trees overhead and skimmed the clear water with a flash of brown wings; or some little creature stirred in the rushes, splashing the water and sending out ever-widening circles to the opposite bank.

Feathers sat motionless, his arms folded, puffing at his pipe, his eyes fixed on Marie's face.

Such a child! Such a child! That was always his compassionate thought of her; and yet—those tears she had shed just now had not been a child's tears, but a woman's.

He was afraid to question himself, afraid to read the answer which he knew was there in his heart, but his eyes searched the soft contours of her face with passionate longing.

Was she asleep? Somehow he did not think she was. And yet he was glad of these moments in which he might look at her without having to hold the mask before his face—for this little time in which she seemed to be his own.

He had long known that he loved her and had accepted the fact as philosophically as he had accepted the many other ironies and disappointments of his life.

It was meant to be! He could not have helped or prevented it, even had he wished. She was his friend's wife, and there was not one disloyal thought in Feathers' heart at he sat there and let his 175 pipe grow cold and dreamed with his eyes on little Marie Celeste.

There was a gramophone playing somewhere in the distance, and the water between lent it a softness and melody that was undeserved. It grew clearer and clearer as the boat carrying it came up stream, and presently Feathers could distinguish the words of the song:

Feathers had a healthy scorn for all things sentimental, but he found himself listening till the boat had passed on and the song vanished again into silence.

He looked at his watch then—it was four o'clock. If they started at once they could not possibly get home before half-past seven or eight, he knew, and recklessness closed down upon him.

It was his last day! Why not snatch all the hours possible? What could it matter to Chris if he lost a little of his wife's company?

So he let Marie sleep on, and sat there without moving, torturing himself with thoughts of the future, till presently she roused and opened her eyes.

She lay for a moment looking at him unrecognizingly, then she started up, rubbing her eyes in confusion.

"Have I been asleep? Why didn't you wake me? What is the time?"

"I am afraid I dozed off myself. It's the heat, I expect." He made a great business of yawning and stretching his arms, though he had not once closed his eyes. "It's nearly six—I am afraid we shall not have time to go on to Henley."

"It doesn't matter," she said quickly. "We can go another day."

176 "Yes, we can go another day," he echoed, with the full knowledge that for him there would never be another day.

The sun was sinking down behind the trees and pastureland and a cool breeze had risen.

Marie shivered, and Feathers picked up her coat and gave it to her silently.

"I'm not really cold," she said, but she put it on.

"Have we got to go back now?" she asked, as he began to untie the rope that held them to the bank.

"Yes, I think we ought. We have to get to London, you know."

"Yes."

It was getting quite dark in the backwater. One punt which passed them carried Chinese lanterns that glowed like magic eyes through the September evening.

"Mr. Dakers," Marie said suddenly.

"Yes." He was intent on the paddle and did not look up.

"There is something I want to ask you before—before we go home."

"Yes." His voice sounded a little jerky.

"It's only . . . you will still come and see me, won't you?—I mean even—even if Chris has come home?"

"Of course. Why shouldn't I?"

"I don't know—I only thought perhaps . . ." Her voice faltered, only to break out again passionately: "Oh, if you knew how I hate the thought of the future," and then, with shamed realization of what her words might convey, she tried to laugh as she went on: "I don't exactly mean that, but—but, oh, you know I'm not the sort of wife Chris ought to have married! It's kind of you to try and pretend that you think I am, but I'm not so blind as I used to be, and I know now! And I can't even make myself different—I suppose because I'm too stupid . . . If only I were more like Mrs. Heriot or Dorothy Webber . . ."

Feathers broke in harshly: "For God's sake, don't compare yourself with them."

"But it's true—you know it's true," she insisted. "I don't want 177 you to think I'm blaming Chris; I've never blamed him in all my life, and I want him to be happy, but . . ." Her voice trailed hopelessly way, only to recover again with a pathetic effort.

"I'm not the sort of girl ever to make him happy. At first I hoped— oh, I hoped so hard that things would come right, but lately—just during the last few days, I think, I seem to have seen that it can never be. I suppose I ought not to say all this to you—you're his friend, and I am glad you are."

"I am your friend, too," said Feathers, quietly.

"I know; that's why I'm telling you. It's—it's dreadful to have no one I can talk to—no one to understand and help me."

"I am afraid it's beyond me to help you," Feathers said hoarsely. "I can only tell you to be patient and try and stick it out. Pluck's everything you know, Mrs. Lawless——"

As if she had not been plucky! He gritted his teeth at his temerity in daring to preach such a doctrine to her, and yet it was the best he could do. To offer her the sympathy and tenderness that was tearing his heart with longing would be to ruin their friendship once and for all.

He looked back at her with hot eyes. He could only see her face dimly through the dusk, but he heard the little despondent sigh she gave as she answered him: "Yes; I suppose you are right. I will try again—thank you."

"There's nothing to thank me for."

She laughed with soft scorn.

"How can you say that! Why, you've been kinder to me than anyone in the world."

"My selfishness probably." He was making a desperate effort to get back to platitudes, but it was difficult on such a perfect night and in the company of the one woman in the world who had ever touched his heart.

"I haven't drowned you, you see," Feathers said, as they reached the boathouse again.

"No—and it's been such a lovely day."

178 He went off to get the car ready. Every moment was precious now, and there were so few left. He thought jealously of the short drive back to London, and wished that its end lay on the other side of infinity.

"It's been such a lovely day!" Marie said again, as they started. "I have enjoyed it—tremendously!"

The last word was a sigh.

"So have I."

There were so many things he wanted to say to her, but his tongue was awkward and unable to find the words. He wanted to tell her that always, whatever happened, he was her devoted friend, that his one desire in life was for her happiness, but mile after mile slipped by and the tender thoughts could get no further than his sad heart.

And then they were home . . .

Feathers' face was grim as he stopped the car at Miss Chester's gate and looked down at Marie.

"I hope you are not very tired, Mrs. Lawless," he said, and smiled grimly to himself in the gray night at the contrast of the banal inquiry and the passionate words that were almost choking him.

"No, I am not very tired," she said, and she gave him a little pale smile as they went up the steps together. "You will—will wait and see if Chris has come?"

"Yes."

She asked the maid who admitted them, "Has Mr. Lawless come home?" but she knew before the girl answered, for Chris' big traveling coat hung in the hall and there was a smell of cigarette smoke in the house which had been absent during the past weeks.

She felt a little giddy, and her heart was beating wildly. How could she bear to meet him and hear his casual "Hullo, Marie Celeste?"

"Mr. Lawless came home this afternoon quite early," the maid answered. "He had dinner with Miss Chester and went out: he said he should not be in till late."

There was a little silence.

"I won't stay then, Mrs. Lawless," Feathers said quietly. "Good- Night."

179 "Good-night." Her fingers fluttered in his big grasp for a moment, then he turned away and the front door shut heavily behind him.

Marie went into the drawing-room to Miss Chester. She felt very tired, and her footsteps dragged.

"We've got back," she said.

"Yes." Miss Chester looked up. "I thought I heard Mr. Dakers' voice," she added.

"So you did, but he would not stay when he heard that Chris had gone out."

Miss Chester's kindly gaze wavered a little.

"Chris seemed very disappointed not to find you at home," she said. "He could not understand it. He said that he wired he should be home this afternoon."

"So he did, and I got the wire, but as he is always so uncertain I did not think it worth while to stay at home."

There was a little silence. The distressed color rushed to Miss Chester's thin face, and she laid down her knitting.

"Marie!" she said, aghast.

Marie smiled.

"Well, dear, he has wired before, and written before, and not come," she said. "And I did so want to go on the river."

She took off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair. Her nerves felt all on edge. She was afraid that at any moment the door would open and Chris walk in. She wondered desperately what she should say to him. It frightened her, because there was none of the ecstasy in her heart, which had once been such a joy and a torment.

"Chris was hungry, so we did not wait dinner. Have you had yours?" Miss Chester asked.

"Yes; no, I mean. I am not hungry; we had such a big lunch."

Marie wandered restlessly down the room. A sporting paper lay on one of the tables amongst the silver trinkets and queer little Victorian boxes which had belonged to her mother. Chris had thrown it down there, she knew—and there was cigarette ash in one of the fern pots.

180 "He looks splendidly well." Miss Chester went on, attacking her shawl once more. "So brown! I never saw anyone with such a brown skin."

Marie could picture him quite well—knew how startlingly blue his eyes would look against that weather-tanned face. She stopped in front of a photograph of him, and stared at it with a curious expression in her eyes.

It had been taken when he was at Cambridge and showed him on the river in boating flannels. She remembered so well when he had sent that photograph home—it had been during the one short period of her life when for a little while she had almost forgotten him.

She had not seen him for weeks, and a fresh school had made new interests for her that had pushed him into the background of her thoughts. Then that photograph came, and she could remember as plainly as though it had been yesterday the sudden revulsion of feeling that had flooded her heart, bringing back all the old longing ache and worshipful love, even causing her to despise herself because just for a little she had forgotten her idol.

As she stood staring at it now, she was conscious of a wish that was almost a prayer for some such metamorphosis to happen again. She would have welcomed the old biting jealousy and disappointment if she could have driven this new feeling of cold indifference from her heart.

"He brought me some lovely lace," Miss Chester went on. "There is one thing about Chris, he never forgets to bring us presents when he has been away. He is always most generous."

Marie echoed the words flatly.

"Yes, he is always most generous." And, for the first time since she had overheard what Feathers had said in the hotel on the night of her wedding, the bitter thought awoke in her heart that, after all, it was only her money with which Chris was being generous—the price he had paid for his freedom.

"If Chris is going to be late home," she said restlessly, "I will 181 go to bed. I really am tired. It's the river, I suppose. Mr. Dakers says it is supposed to make people sleepy."

She had crossed to Miss Chester to kiss her good-night, when the door opened and Chris walked into the room.

182