MARIE sat lost in thought for a long time after the others had gone on. It was very peaceful out there on the links, and to-day there was hardly anybody about.

She wondered why it was that, no matter how hard she tried, she always seemed to find herself left alone and out of everything.

Did the fault lie in her own temperament, or was it merely that she was not physically strong enough to enter into things as other women did?

She knew that she was totally unsuited to be Chris' wife, and, knowing it, wondered why it was she had ever loved him so much; why things so often seemed to happen like that in life, without any apparent reason.

In spite of the subtle change in her feelings towards her husband, she never for a moment blamed him. It was Fate—one could not avoid these things, and she found herself wondering if Feathers would have been kinder and less selfish had he found himself in similar circumstances.

She looked down at his rough tweed coat lying across her lap. It was well worn and very shabby, much more shabby than any coat of her husband's. She smoothed the rough fabric with gentle fingers.

It was odd how blind women were, she thought; odd that an ugly face should so repel them that they never troubled to look beyond it and discover that it is possible for a heart of gold to lie hidden behind blunt features and an ungainly figure.

She had made the same mistake herself. She had adored her husband's 196 handsome face and proved to her bitter cost that alone it was unsatisfying and offered nothing in exchange for all her love.

What was to become of her? The bond of marriage which she had at first believed she could tolerate because she loved her fellow prisoner was now growing into a fetter, and she felt that she would give anything to be free of it.

She had thought herself miserable when Chris was away in Scotland, and yet she knew she had been happier then than she was now, when his presence in the house was a constant worry to her, and left her with an eternal sense of captivity.

She had tried hard to get used to it, and failed. Surely there must be some other way of escape for them both.

Across the hills she thought she heard somebody calling to her, and she scrambled to her feet with a sense of guilt. Time had passed so quickly—she supposed they had got back to the clubhouse and were looking for her.

Feather's coat had fallen to the grass, and as she stooped to recover it a litter of papers and odds and ends tumbled out of one of the pockets.

Marie went down on her knees to gather them up, smiling at the motley collection. There was a bundle of pipe-cleaners and a half- empty packet of cigarettes, a bone pocket knife, some papers that looked like bills and a sheet torn from a bridge scorer with something folded between it—something that fluttered down to the grass—a dead flower!

The color flew to Marie cheeks as she stooped to pick it up. It was a faded blossom of love-in-a-mist—the flower she herself had given to Feathers the last time they drove this way.

She held it in her band for a moment, her eyes a little misty, then she unfolded the page from the bridge scorer and put it back in its place, and on the inside of the paper, scrawled in Feather's writing, were the words "Marie Celeste," and the date of the day she had given it to him.

Marie sat down on the grass with a little feeling of unreality. Why had he kept it? She shut her eyes and conjured up his kind, ugly 197 face, and all at once it was as if a burning ray of light penetrated her mind, showing her the thing he had never meant her to see.

He loved her! She could not have explained how it was that she knew or why she was so sure, but it came home to her with a conviction that would not be denied. He loved her.

How blind she had been not to have known all along! A hundred and one little incidents of their friendship came crowding back to her, fraught with a new meaning and significance.

He loved her, and his was a love so well worth having; a love that would make a woman perfectly contented and happy, that would allow of no room for jealous doubts or bitterness, that would be like the clasp of his hand, strong and all enfolding.

She had often thought with faint envy of the unknown woman whom some day he might love, and all the time she was that woman!

The little dried flower had betrayed his secret, and the knowledge of it sent a wave of such happiness through her heart that for an instant she felt as if she were floating on clouds far above all the bitter disappointments and disillusionments that marriage had brought her.

For the first time in her life Chris no longer had a place in her thoughts. She gave herself up to the sweetness of a dream that could never be realized—the wonder of complete happiness.

"Marie," said a voice behind her, and she looked up with dazed eyes to her husband's face.

She had not heard his step over the soft grass, and he was close beside her as with trembling fingers she thrust the papers and odds and ends back into Feathers' coat.

"I was just coming back," she said. She tried desperately to control her voice, but her agitated heartbeats seemed somehow to have got hopelessly mixed up with it. "Mr. Dakers left me his coat, and the things all fell out of the pocket—I hope I've found them all."

She scrambled up.

"Let me take it," Chris said. She made a little involuntary 198 movement as if to refuse, then gave it to him silently.

That old tweed coat had suddenly grown dear to her—more dear than anything else in the world. She averted her eyes, so she should not see the careless way in which Chris slung it over his arm.

She walked along beside him without speaking, hardly conscious of his presence. Her thoughts were all in the clouds, her pulses were still throbbing.

Somebody loved her—that was the great joy and wonder of the world. She no longer felt herself unwanted. There was one man to whom she was not merely a tie and a nuisance.

Then Chris said abruptly: "It's a pity you came if you're so easily tired."

She started and looked up at him.

"What do you mean? I'm not tired."

All her weariness had forsaken her, driven away by new and happier thoughts.

He laughed grimly.

"Feathers told me that you were tired and had stayed behind to rest."

He searched her face with vague suspicion.

Marie answered rather sharply:

"There seemed no object in my trudging round behind you all; I was not playing and I did not understand the game."

She quickened her pace a little as the clubhouse came in sight. She did not desire his company. She hardly considered him.

They had tea outside in the shade of a tree. Mrs. Heriot was very quiet. She looked rather sullen.

"Have you got a headache?" Marie asked sympathetically. She felt that to-day she could even be nice to this woman.

Mrs. Heriot's sister broke in spitefully: "Headache! Of course she hasn't. She lost the game, that's all, and it always makes her sulky."

Mrs. Heriot flushed.

"We'll take you on again after tea, and beat you," she said. "We 199 never should have lost, only Chris slacked off."

She shot him an angry glance.

Feathers took no interest in the conversation. He had had one cup of tea, refusing anything to eat, and sat back in his chair, his hat tilted over his yes, smoking hard.

Marie hardly glanced in his direction, but she was painfully conscious of his every movement. Her thoughts all the time were picking out little incidents of their friendship, translating them anew, hugging their meaning to her heart.

She did not know that Chris was watching her closely—would not have cared if she had known. For once she had been lifted above the level of pain and disappointment to which marriage with him had relegated her.

Presently another man strolled up and joined them. He knew both Chris and Mrs. Heriot, it seemed He asked if there was any chance of a foursome.

Chris indicated Feathers.

"My friend here is going to play. Sorry."

Feathers looked up.

"I'm not keen—I'm quite happy where I am. Mrs. Lawless and I will keep one another company. Shall we?" he asked, glancing at her.

Marie nodded. Her heart was racing, and she was afraid that every one would see her agitation. Chris laughed.

"I dare say you'll be able to amuse one another." he said, and presently Marie was left with Feathers.

He sat up then with some show of energy.

"Nice place here, isn't it?"

"Yes—very."

"I wish you would play golf, Mrs. Lawless."

"Who do you suppose would teach me? I don't know the first thing about it."

"I shall be delighted to offer myself for the post, if Chris has no objection."

Her brown eyes shone. "Why should he? He would not care to teach me himself."

200 It seemed as if she saw Feathers now for the first time. He was no longer Chris' friend, the man she had hated for having brought her castle tottering earthwards. He was no longer even the kind friend he had been to her—he was the man who loved her.

Her thoughts seemed to travel so fast ahead, weaving all sorts of impossible day-dreams for the future.

"I'll speak to him about it," Feathers said briefly.

His kind eyes dwelt on her face.

"I thought you said you were tired," he said, suddenly. "I don't think I have ever seen you look better in your life."

She laughed and flushed.

"Haven't you?" She looked away from him across the green slope up which Chris and the others were disappearing.

"You ought to have played," she said irrelevantly. "Why didn't you? I am sure you would have enjoyed it better than sitting here."

She asked the question intentionally, hoping with almost childish eagerness that he would say he preferred to be where he was. She knew it would be only the polite thing to say, although in her heart she would understand that in this instance he was sincere.

But Feathers did not say it. He was filling his pipe with tobacco, ramming it down into the bowl with careful precision.

"I don't care for mixed games," he said. "Mrs. Heriot always loses her temper so shockingly."

"Does she?" She leaned her chin in her hand and looked at him with rather wistful eyes. She wondered what he would say if she told him about that little dead flower.

He broke into her thoughts.

"Has Chris told you that I am leaving England?"

The words gave her a terrible shock; the color drained away from her face, leaving her eyes very piteous against its pallor.

"Leaving—England!" she echoed the words in a whisper.

201 "Yes," he went on, ramming tobacco into his pipe, hardly conscious of what he was doing.

"You remember that I told you I always went with the tide. Well, three weeks ago it washed me up in London, and now it's washing me off again. I'm going to Italy."

"Oh—what for?" She asked the question without expression.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know; nothing in particular. I've been before, of course. I'm just going to take a stick and a knapsack, and walk around the country, sleep anywhere—eat anything—and enjoy myself."

"I wish I could come with you." The words broke from her with a little cry, and Feathers raised his eyes at last.

He saw the pallor of her face and the distress in her eyes, and his heart began to race, but he only said very quietly: "You'd soon get tired of living my Bohemian life. When you go to Italy Chris will take you, and you must do the thing properly."

She seemed hardly to hear. She went on passionately: "It seems as if I must lose all my friends. It isn't fair! First there was Mr. Atkins, and now . . ."

"Atkins!" said Feathers sharply.

"Yes." She laughed recklessly. "He went away because . . . oh, I suppose I ought not to tell you, really, but I know you think that nobody cares for me—because I'm so uninteresting, but he did—he was only a boy, but he was really fond of me—and so . . . so I sent him away! And now you are going, too! . . . I wish I could die!" said Marie Celeste, in a tragic whisper.

There was a long silence. Feathers' big hands hung limply between his knees, his fingers still clutching at his pipe, then he said slowly, as if he were carefully choosing his words:

"If young Atkins could be man enough to—go—what would you think of me—if I stayed?"

His voice was quite quiet, though a little hoarse, but its very steadiness seemed both to conceal and reveal more than an outburst 202 of passion would have done, and Marie gave a little stifled cry.

And Feathers went on, speaking in the same quiet voice:

"You see, Mrs. Lawless, I know the world, and you do not! I know what a mountain of regrets one lays up for the future if—if one forgets other things . . . Chris is a good fellow—until he married you I thought him the best chap in the world—I think so still, except that I cannot forgive him for having failed to make you happy; but . . . but my failure will be worse than his, if I—if I try to deceive myself with the belief that I can . . . can give you what he cannot."

"I have always been happy with you," said Marie in a whisper.

Her cheeks were like fire, and she felt that she could never look him in the face again, and yet her whole desire was to keep him with her—to prevent him from walking out of her life, as she knew he intended doing.

She felt very much as she had done that morning when he saved her from drowning—a terrible feeling of hopelessness and despair, until the moment when the grip of his strong hands caught her.

He had saved her life then. Was he going to let her drown now in the depths of her own misery?

Once he went away it would be the end of everything, she knew. He would never come back any more, and for the rest of her life she would have to go on trying to make the best of things, trying to get used to having a bachelor husband.

She knew that the silence had lasted for a long time before Feathers said gently: "There are some people coming, Mrs. Lawless!"

She looked up then with fiery eyes.

"Well, you haven't gone yet," she said defiantly. "Ever so many things may happen before you do."

The day had been a failure, and the drive home was a silent one. Marie sat beside Chris as she had done before, and her eyes were very bright as she looked steadily ahead of her down the road.

203 It was like looking into the future, she thought, as London drew nearer and nearer, and the many lights were symbolical of the happiness that lay in wait for her.

She refused to believe that Feathers really would go away. Her whole heart and soul were bent on keeping him near her.

She was very young, or she would have seen the impossibility of the whole thing as he did. Reaction was the power driving her. She who had hitherto had nothing found herself all at once with full hands, and she clasped her treasure to her desperately.

Chris put her down at the house and drove around to the garage with Feathers; he was a long time gone—and when he came back he was alone.

Marie peeped over the banisters when she heard his voice in the hall below, and a faint chill touched her heart when she saw that Feathers had not come in with him. She felt like a disappointed child as she went back to her room.

She had changed her frock to please Feathers. There was somebody at last who cared how she looked. Though he would have said nothing, perhaps would hardly have glanced her way, she would have known that he liked to see her look pretty.

Now that he was not coming she had lost all interest. Her face was listless as she crossed the landing to go downstairs.

As she did so, the door of Chris' bedroom opened, and he called to her:

"I want you, Marie Celeste."

Marie hesitated.

"It's nearly dinner-time; what do you want?"

"I want to speak to you."

One of the servants was coming upstairs, and more for appearance sake than anything Marie obeyed.

"Yes." She stood in the doorway waiting.

Chris had made no attempt to change for dinner, though he had been in some time. He stretched a hand past her as she stood there and 204 shut the door. Then he said abruptly:

"I'm going away to-morrow, Marie. I'm sick of London." He did not look at her as he spoke, but he heard the quick breath she drew, and knew it was one of relief.

His voice was hard as he went on, "I want you to come with me."

"No." She was hardly conscious of having spoken the word till she saw the sudden change in his face, but he kept himself under admirable control.

"Why not?" he asked.

She looked away from him.

"I would rather stay here—that is all."

"But I wish you to come."

She looked up.

"You have never wanted me to go anywhere with you before."

"I know—perhaps because I was a damned fool. Anyway, we won't argue. You will come with me tomorrow."

"No, Chris, I shall not."

There was a tragic silence.

"Why not?" Chris asked again hoarsely.

Her lips trembled, but she answered quite gently: "Because I would rather stay here—with Aunt Madge."

She saw the hot blood leap to his face, and quite suddenly he broke out in blind passion.

"With Feathers, you mean! Speak the truth and admit it! You want to stay here with him and knock about with him, as you did when I was in Scotland I I'm not such a blind fool as you think! It's Feathers who has changed you so! Do you think I can't see the difference in you when you're with him and when you're with me? Do you think other people can't see it, too? You heard what that woman, Mrs. Heriot, said at lunch to-day . . ."

Marie's lip curled contemptuously, though her heart was racing and she was as white as a ghost.

"Mrs. Heriot!" she echoed disdainfully.

205 "And everyone else, too!" he raved on. "It's got to stop, I tell you. You're coming away with me to-morrow. Do you think I want my wife talked about by a lot of scandalmongering women? . . ." He broke off breathlessly, but Marie neither spoke nor raised her eyes, and the coldness of her averted face cut him to the heart. He caught her by the shoulders roughly.

"You used to love me, Marie Celeste," he said brokenly.

"Did I?" The brown eyes met his now. "You never loved me," she said, very quietly.

He broke out again into fresh anger. He raged up and down the room, hardly knowing what he was doing. He hated himself for his blindness, hated her more because she could stand there so unmoved.

"You'll come away with me to-morrow," he said hoarsely. "I insist— you're my wife!"

"Yes—unfortunately," she said, white-lipped.

He stared at her with hot eyes.

"Is that how you feel about it? You hate me as much as that? I know I haven't treated you as well as I might have done—I know I'm a selfish chap—but you knew that when you married me—you've always known it."

She gave a little weary sigh.

"What does it matter? I'm not complaining; you've always been free."

"I don't want to be free; you're my wife. Marie Celeste, for God's sake . . ." She put up her hand.

"Oh, Chris—please."

It hurt inexpressibly to hear him pleading to her—he who had never done such a thing in his life—and yet . . . "I don't care! I don't care at all!" she was saying over and over again in her heart.

He took her hand.

"Can't we start again? I'll do my very best—I swear I will. I know you're too good for me—you ways have been. I don't deserve that you should ever have married me, but it's not too late, Marie Celeste. Come away with me, and I'll show you that I can treat you 206 decently when I like."

Someone knocked at the door. "Please, sir. Miss Chester sent me to say that dinner was ready half an hour ago."

Marie drew her hand away quickly. The interruption was very welcome.

"Let me go—please! Aunt Madge will think it so strange."

"In a moment, Marie. Will you come with me to-morrow? We'll go where you like; I'll do anything in the world you wish. . ."

She shook her head.

"I don't know; I can't decide now. Ill think it over."

"When will you tell me?"

"I don't know; to-morrow—yes, to-morrow morning."

She made the terms to escape from him and went to her room and stood for a moment with her hands hard pressed over her eyes.

The storm had come so suddenly. She wondered what had been responsible for it. Had Mrs. Heriot said anything more—or could it have been Feathers himself? She could hardly force herself to go down to dinner, as she was shaken to the depths of her soul.

Chris talked ceaselessly during dinner. He drank a good deal of wine, and his face grew flushed and his eyes excited.

"You're not going out again, surely?" Miss Chester asked him when afterwards he came to the drawing-room for a moment in his overcoat.

"I am—just for a stroll; it's so hot indoors." He looked at Marie. "Will you come?" he asked jerkily.

"I'd rather not; I'm tired—I think I'll stay with Aunt Madge."

But as soon as he had gone she went up to her room and sat down in the darkness. A lifetime seemed to have been crowded into this one day. She felt that she had aged years since they started out in the morning.

207 Feathers loved her! The knowledge stood out like a beacon light in the darkness. She knew what her life would be with him—happiness and contentment, and she did so long for happiness.

He was a good man, and a strong man; all her empty heart seemed to stretch out to him in passionate gratitude and longing.

But she was married . . . She felt for her wedding ring in the darkness and held it fast.

She had married the man she loved, believing that he loved her. Well, he did not! She was his wife in name only! Would there be any great harm if she snapped the frail tie between them?

She sat there for a long, long time, tortured with doubts and indecision. What ought she to do?

Miss Chester came up presently to say good-night. She knew quite well that there had been some trouble between Chris and Marie, but she asked no questions.

"Sleep well, dearie," she said as she went away, and Marie smiled bitterly. How could anyone sleep well, torn as she was by such miserable indecision?

Did she love Feathers? She could not be sure. That she loved him as a dear friend she knew; that she was always happy with him she also knew; but there was none of the romance and wonder in it that had thrilled her when Chris asked her to marry him.

She wrung her hands in the darkness.

"I don't know—oh, I don't know!"

Chris cared nothing for her. His outburst this evening had been partly anger and partly outraged pride. His was a dog-in-the-manger affection; he did not want her himself, and yet he would allow nobody else to have her.

She got up presently and unlocked the door between their rooms, groping along the wall for the switch.

She looked round her husband's room with unhappy eyes, and something of the old tenderness flowed back into her heart.

She had loved him for so long, her life and his were so irrevocably 208 bound up together. How could she take this step that would sever the tie once and for all?

She wandered round the room aimlessly, picking up little things of his, looking at them, and putting them down again, and all the time the same unanswerable questions were going on in her mind.

If she stayed with him what was there for her in the future? She could only see more disillusionment and tears and sorrow, and if she went with Feathers . . . Marie laughed brokenly, the tears running down her cheeks. How could she go with Feathers when he had not asked her? And suddenly she remembered the look in his eyes as he said good-night to her an hour or two ago.

She had tried to believe that it was not farewell and renunciation that she had read in them, but she had known that it was. He was stronger than she—his heart might ache, but he would not dishonor his friend. He would walk away with a smile on his lips, and nobody would ever know what he suffered.

If she tried to break down his strength she was not worthy of his love, and suddenly Marie Celeste hid her face in her hands and broke into bitter crying, which yet brought tears of healing to her heart. She would be worthy of him—she would not be a coward, snatching greedily at the one hope of happiness offered to her; she would go on, trying to be brave, trying to make the best of things.

She went back to her room, leaving the door ajar so that she could hear when Chris came in. He was very late—she heard the clock strike twelve, and then half-past, but still he did not come; and then—at twenty minutes past one she heard a taxi drive up to the door and voices on the path outside.

She pulled aside the blind and peered out, but it was too dark to distinguish anything. Then the cab drove away, and she heard the front door opening below and the sound of steps in the hall.

She crept out oh to the landing and looked over the banisters. She could see Chris, his hat pushed to the back of his head and the top 209 of a cigar stuck jauntily into the corner of his mouth, laughing immoderately, and swaying a little on his heels, as he resisted the other man's attempt to help him off with his coat.

Marie had never seen anyone the worse for drink in her life. Miss Chester had always brought her up in the belief that no gentleman ever took too much to drink. She would have been horrified if anyone had told her that most men of her acquaintance had, at one time or another, been helped home to bed. She stood clutching at the banisters, her face white with horror.

She did not know the man who was with Chris, so she hardly glanced at him. Her feet seemed glued to the spot and her eyes never left her husband's face.

And this was the man of whom she had a moment ago cherished such tender thoughts of forgiveness; this was the man for whose sake she had made up her mind to forego her happiness.

Her overstrained nerves exaggerated the whole thing painfully. She fled back to her room and locked and bolted the door.

She heard Chris come upstairs and heard him walking unsteadily about the room, and after a long time she heard him click out the light. Everything was silent then, but Marie Celeste lay awake till dawn, her brown eyes wide with horror.

She had kept her idol on its pedestal with difficulty for some time now, but to-night it had fallen . . .

Chris was down late for breakfast the next morning; but he looked quite fresh and brisk as she met him in the hall.

"You had better ring for more coffee," she said. "I am afraid it is cold; you are late."

"I know; I was late home last night."

She did not say that she had heard and seen him and went on without answering. Presently he sought her out. His blue eyes were anxious, and he looked very boyish and nervous.

"Well, Marie, what is it to be?"

210 Marie was writing a letter in the drawing-room and she laid the pen down and turned in her chair.

Perhaps he read the answer in her face, for he took a quick protesting step forward. "Marie—you're not . . ."

She stood up, her hand on the chair between them.

"I've been thinking it over, Chris, and—and I can't go away with you to-day."

Their eyes met steadily for a moment, and she saw his lips quiver as if she had hurt him, but Chris knew how to take a hard blow. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well—I know I've only myself to blame."

He turned to the door, but she called him back.

"There's something else, Chris."

"Well?"

But now she could not meet his eyes, and her voice was almost a whisper as she said:

"I wanted to ask you—it's . . . it's so hopeless going on like this. You are not any more happy than I am . . . Couldn't we—isn't there some way of . . . of both of us getting our freedom again?"

She did not dare to look at him as she spoke. Her heart was beating furiously; there was a little hammering pulse in her throat that almost choked her. Then Chris covered the distance between them in a single stride and took her roughly by the shoulders.

"How dare you—how dare you say such a thing to me?" he said hoarsely. "Good God! don't you think I've got any—any feeling? Do you think I'm such a blackguard as to—to listen to such a thing for one moment? You must be mad!"

"I'm not—and you know I'm not. I'm tired—sick to death of living like this." Her voice rose excitedly. "Why, we may have to be together for years and years—twenty years, if we don't try and get free!" Her brown eyes were feverish. "You hate it as much as I do. Oh, surely it can be arranged if we try very hard!"

Chris was as white as death. This was the worst shock he had ever had in his life, and, coming from Marie Celeste of all people, it left him stunned and speechless.

Until his return from Scotland he had been quite happy and 211 contented, but since that first evening when she had so coldly repulsed him there had been a restlessness in his heart, a miserable sort of feeling that he could settle to nothing—a consciousness that things were all wrong and that he had not the power to put them right.

And the discovery that he had only himself to thank for it all did not help him in the least. In his blindness he tried every way but the right way to get back to his old contentment.

Marie was in love with love, not with Feathers, but, being a man, Chris could not tell this. He only saw the thing that lay immediately beneath his notice, and it told him that his wife had given her love to his friend.

He had no more idea than the dead what was going to happen, but, with his bulldog obstinacy, he knew he had no intention of allowing her to go free.

He cared nothing for scandal, though he pretended to. He hardly considered Feathers at all in the case. The one thing that racked him was the knowledge that he was in danger of losing something that had all at once become very precious.

His lips twitched badly when he tried to speak. He felt as if he were fighting in the dark—as if there were some unseen foe pitting its strength against him that would not come out into honest daylight.

Marie stood twisting her handkerchief childishly, her head downbent, and yet she had never looked less of a child in his eyes.

The little girl he had known all his life seemed suddenly to have disappeared, leaving in her place a woman who looked at him with the eyes of Marie Celeste, but without the shy admiration to which he had grown so accustomed that he never thought about it at all.

A great longing came to him to take her into his arms and tell her that she was talking nonsense, to kiss the strained look away from her face and the severe line of her pretty mouth into smiles, to tell her that they were going to begin all over again and be happy— that the last weeks had been just a bad dream from which he had 212 awakened, but his pride and some new dignity about her prevented him.

This was not the Marie Celeste he had known. She had escaped him while he had been looking away from her for his happiness.

After a moment he asked stiffly:

"Supposing—supposing it were possible—to do as you say—for each to get our freedom again . . . what would you do?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know!"

Miss Chester came to the door.

"Marie, I've been looking everywhere for you—I've lost one of my knitting needles."

Marie flew to find it for her. She avoided Chris for the rest of the morning for she was afraid of him now. Although she had deliberately precipitated matters, she awaited the issue with dread.

Chris did not come in to lunch, and, though once during the afternoon Marie heard his voice in the house, he did not seek her out, and at dinner time he was absent again.

Though nothing was said. Miss Chester could feel the tension in the air, and late that night she asked hesitatingly: "Is anything the matter, Marie?"

"Nothing—no, auntie, of course not."

But Miss Chester was not deceived, and her mind was racked with anxiety.

Marie felt as if she were waiting for something great to happen, though what it was she did not know. Every knock or ring of the bell made her pulses race.

That Chris was deliberately avoiding her she knew, and she wondered how long it would be before the breaking point came. She longed to get it over.

Once she caught sight of herself in the glass and was startled by her pallor and the strained look in her eyes. A frightened look it was, she thought, and she passed her hands across them as if to brush it out.

She stayed downstairs till Chris came in that night. She stood just outside the drawing-room door, her heart beating apprehensively. 213 Supposing he was the worse for drink, as he had been last night? But she need not have been afraid. Chris was sober enough. He had been walking the streets for hours, beating against the invisible bars that had so suddenly appeared in his life.

When he saw his wife his face hardened.

"You ought to have gone to bed hours ago," he said.

"I waited for you; I want to speak to you; I waited last night, too," she added deliberately.

He did not look at all ashamed, only laughed rather defiantly.

"And I was the worse for drink, eh? I suppose the elevating fact did not do my cause any good."

She did not answer, wondering what he would say if she told him what determinating factor against him that glimpse over the banisters had been.

He leaned against the mantelpiece and looked at her.

"Well, I'm stone sober to-night, anyway," he said morosely.

There was a little silence.

"What do you want to see me about?" he asked. "Only the same old thing, I suppose—the desire to be free."

He took a sudden step towards her, tilting her downbent face backwards by her chin.

"Why did you marry me, if you hate me so?"

She closed her eyes to hide their pain.

"I was—was fond of you—I thought it would be all right—I thought you were fond of me."

"I have always been fond of you."

She looked up quickly.

"You would never have married me if it hadn't been for the money."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"It's not in me to love any woman a great deal," he said evasively. "I've never been a woman's man, you know that. There was never anything in that Mrs. Heriot affair, though I know you don't believe me."

He stood back from her, his hands thrust into his pockets.

214 "Supposing we could get a divorce—separation—whatever you like to call it, how much better off are you going to be?" he asked after a moment "What's the good of washing dirty linen for the amusement of the public?"

The burning color rushed to her face. She had lived so much in the clouds since the moment when she found that little dead flower in Feathers' coat pocket that Chris' blunt words sounded horribly brutal. Chris, watching her narrowly, saw the sudden quivering of her lips, and his heart smote him.

"Go to bed, Marie Celeste," he said more gently. "It's no use worrying about things to-night."

He cared so little. The thought stung her afresh as she turned away. He would have been quite content to go on in the old, semi- detached fashion, with not a thought for her.

Chris listened to her dragging steps as she went up the stairs. They sounded as if they were already walking away out of his life, he thought, with a little feeling of superstition, and he wondered if the day would ever come when she would cease to belong to him.

He could not imagine his life without Marie Celeste. She had always been there, a willing little figure in the background of things.

All his boyhood and early manhood were studded with pictures in which she had played a part.

She had seemed happy enough when they were first married, or so it had appeared to his blindness. What had happened since to bring about such a change?

He could not believe it was altogether Feathers. He did not believe that his friend was the type of man to seriously interest Marie. Feathers never took women seriously.

He looked at his watch—not yet half-past eleven.

He had not seen Feathers since they parted at the door on Sunday evening, and with sudden impulse he took his hat and went off to Albany Street.

There was a light in one of the windows of Feathers' rooms, and Chris threw up a stone.

215 The window was open, and almost immediately Feathers' rough head appeared against the light.

"Hullo! That you, Chris?"

"Yes; can I come up?"

"Of course."

They met on the stairs.

"Atkins is here," Feathers said; "but he's just off. Come in."

Chris did not care for Atkins, and greeted him rather curtly.

"Mrs. Lawless is well, I hope?" young Atkins asked awkwardly, and Chris grunted out that she was quite well.

"I haven't seen her for some time," Atkins said rather wistfully.

Nobody answered, and he took up his hat.

"Well, I'll be off." He said good-night and clattered away down the stairs.

"Young idiot!" Chris said, flinging himself into a chair. "Phew! It's warm, isn't it?"

"It's abnormal weather for September," Feathers agreed.

There was a little silence, then Feathers knocked the ashes from his pipe and stood up.

"Well, out with it! What's the matter?"

"What do you mean?"

"That I know you've come here with something on your mind. Get it off and you'll feel better."

He half-expected an outburst of rage from his friend, but none came, and there was a painful note in Chris' voice as he said:

"It's—my wife!"

"Yes." It gave Feathers a little shock to hear Chris speak of Marie in those words. He could not remember ever having heard him use them before. It was usually "Marie" or "Marie Celeste." It brought home to him with sharp reality how far removed she was from him, how much she belonged to the man whose name she bore.

Chris looked up, his eyes hot and faintly suspicious.

"Damn it! You know as well as I do that things are all wrong 216 between us," he said roughly. "And now the climax has come and she wants to be free of me—separation, divorce—whatever it is you get when your wife hates you like poison."

Feathers did not move. His ugly face was a little pale, but his eyes betrayed nothing. Chris started up and began pacing the room.

"I'm to blame, I suppose," he said hoarsely. "I ought not to have married her, but it seemed the best thing to do at the time."

A little contemptuous flash crossed his friend's eyes, but he made no comment.

Chris swung round with startling suddenness.

"What would you do if you were me?" he demanded.

"My dear chap! What an impossible question to answer! I know nothing about women—you know that. You should be the best judge as how to settle your own affairs."

Chris crumped his hair agitatedly.

"I'm hanged if I am! I never was so up against it in my life. Perhaps if I cleared off abroad somewhere for a year . . ."

Feathers interrupted quietly:

"Don't you think you've been away long enough already?"

"You mean Scotland! Pooh! That was nothing. She wouldn't have cared about that." But his voice was uncertain, and after a moment he asked suspiciously:

"What are you driving at?"

"Nothing. But I think, as I thought at the time, that it would have saved a lot of trouble if you had taken her with you. You were newly married. It would have been a most natural thing to do."

Chris colored, but he did not feel at all resentful. He was grateful to Feathers for his interest. It was a relief to be able to tell his troubles to somebody.

"I don't think it made any difference," he said after a moment. "It's not as if ours was an ordinary sort of marriage. I mean——" He broke off in confusion, to blunder on again: "Marie doesn't care for me, and that's the whole truth. I thought she did once upon a 217 time. It shows my darned conceit, I suppose."

Feathers said nothing, and, struck by his silence, Chris said with slow deliberation: "Sometimes, now and again, I've wondered if there isn't some other fellow she cares for—some chap she would marry if I wasn't in the way."

He was looking hard at Feathers all the time he spoke, and his friend's ugly face was at the moment mercilessly exposed to the glare of the electric light, but there was no change in its quiet indifference, and Chris gave a sharp sigh of relief.

He had not realized till now how great had been that vague dread in his heart. Marie might care for Feathers, but at that moment Chris was sure that Feathers cared nothing for her—perhaps because he wished to be sure. Feathers was scraping out the bowl of his pipe with an irritating little sound and finished it carefully before he spoke:

"I'm not much of a judge of that sort of thing, but I should not think it at all likely. Mrs. Lawless does not know many people, does she?"

"If you mean men—as far as I know there is only Atkins and—you."

Feathers looked up. There was a little wry smile in his eyes.

"You are hardly flattering to your wife," he said quietly, "if you think that either Atkins or myself could make an impression where you have failed."

Chris laughed awkwardly.

"I never was a suspicious chap," he said. "I hate suspicious people, but since I came home, well . . ." He turned and looked Feathers squarely in the eyes. "I've thought all sorts of queer things—things I would even hesitate to tell you," he added deliberately.

Feathers laughed casually.

"I don't want your confidences, my son," he said. "You started this conversation, you know, and I didn't offer my advice, but as we're on the subject I should just like to remind you that Mrs. Lawless is very young, little more than a child, and—children like 218 attention and amusement."

Chris colored.

"You mean that she hasn't had either from me." he said. "I know you're right, but what the deuce can I do?"

"As you insist on my mounting the pulpit," Feathers said, rather wearily, "I'll repeat an old chestnut of a proverb which says that it's never too late to be what one might have been, or words to that effect. Have a Scotch?"

"No, thanks. I went home too merry and bright the night before last, and Marie was waiting up for me." Chris avoided his friend's eyes. "It's not a thing I often indulge in, you know that," he went on, gruffly, "but I felt like the devil that night."

Feathers made no comment, but he thought of Marie with passionate pity. He could understand so well what a shock it had been to her to see Chris the worse for drink—realize just how she would shrink from him.

The clock struck twelve, and Chris rose reluctantly.

"Well, I'll be off." He hesitated, then added, with a touch of embarrassment: "Thanks awfully for what you've said. I'll remember; I'll speak to her in the morning, and see if we can't patch things up." He went to the door and came back. "You—er, don't tell her I said anything about it to you."

"Of course not."

Chris went home full of good resolutions. He lay awake half the night, plotting and planning what he could do in the future to make amends. Though he did not love Marie, it seemed a dreadful thing to him that they were in such mortal danger of drifting finally apart. He fell asleep, meaning to have a good, long talk with her in the morning and try and straighten out the tangle.

But Marie did not appear at breakfast, and in reply to his inquiries the maid told him that Mrs. Lawless had a bad headache and was going to stay in her room.

219 "To avoid me, I'll be bound," Chris told himself savagely, and his good resolutions began to waver.

What was the use of trying to turn over a new leaf when she refused to help him? What was the use of throwing an insufficient bridge across the gap between them which would only collapse and let him down again sooner or later?

It was a lovely morning, and he thought longingly of the golf links. Twice he went to the 'phone to ring up a friend to join him, but each time he wavered, and at last in desperation he went upstairs to his wife's room.

She was lying by the window on a couch, her dark hair falling childishly over her dressing-gown, and she started up in confusion when she saw Chris.

"I did not think it was you; I thought you had gone out."

"No." He saw the marks of tears on her face, and his heart gave a little throb of remorse. She was only a child, after all, as Feathers had said.

"I am sorry your head is so bad," he said gently.

She turned her face away.

"It's better; I am coming down to lunch. I haven't been sleeping very well lately."

Chris sat down beside her. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he had never been eloquent, and this morning his tongue seemed more stupid than usual.

It was only after some minutes' silence that he blurted out: "Look here, Marie! Can't we start again? I'' awfully sorry things have gone wrong like this, and I know it's my fault. Last night I thought it would be the best thing if I cleared off and left you for a year or so. I thought perhaps it might be all right later on if I came back, but I've changed my mind, and . . . look here—will you forgive me and let us start again?"

He laid his hand clumsily on hers, the hand that wore his ring.

"There's no earthly reason why we can't be happy and get along splendidly," he urged. "I know I'm a selfish devil, but I've always been the same. But I'll try—I'll try all I know if you'll give me 220 a sporting chance."

He waited, but she did not speak, and he went on: "We've seen so little of each other lately—my fault, too, I know—I wish I'd taken you to Scotland with me."

"I wish you had, too." The words broke from her lips bitterly. So much might have been averted, she knew, if only Chris had taken her with him.

The color mounted to his cheeks. Even her voice had changed lately, he thought. There was something hard in its soft tone that vaguely reminded him of Mrs. Heriot.

"It's not too late now," he urged. "There's lots of places you've never seen that I'll take you to! Heaps of shows in London that you'd thoroughly enjoy. . . ." He waited eagerly. "What do you say, Marie Celeste?"

She did not know how to answer. If he had made this offer a month ago she would have accepted it gladly, but now it did not seem so very attractive.

"We might give a few little parties," Chris went on vaguely. "Aunt Madge won't mind, or if she does—we'll set up a show for ourselves. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like pottering about in a house of your own."

She nodded. She could not trust her voice.

"Is that a bargain, then?" he asked happily. He had so often got his own way with her that it never entered his head that he might not be going to get it this time. His fingers tightened over her hand. "Say it's a bargain, Marie Celeste, and be friends with me again."

She turned her head slowly and looked at him.

His eyes were very eager and anxious, but for the first time in her life Marie's heart was not at his feet, and she was not conscious of any desperate longing to drive away his anxiety and agree to what he wanted.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked sharply.

He was beginning to realize that it was not only her voice that had changed and the expression of her eyes when she looked at him, but the girl herself; that she could no longer be coaxed and bullied by 221 him—that she was a woman with a will of her own in her soft frame.

"I was thinking." she said slowly, "that I will agree to try what you suggest, on one condition . . ."

His face brightened.

"Anything, of course! Anything you like." He was sure that she could not be going to impose anything very hard.

It came, therefore, as something of a shock when she said: "I will do as you suggest, if—at the end of a month, we find we can't get on any better, and—and be happy . . . you will let me go."

He echoed her words blankly.

"Let you go! What do you mean?"

The sensitive color flew to her face, but she answered quite quietly and steadily:

"We could get a divorce—I don't think it is called that—but I know we could get a divorce—I—I've found out all about it."

Chris sat staring down at the floor. There was a dreadful feeling somewhere in the region of his heart, for he had never believed that she could be so hard and implacable.

She was not yet twenty, but she was calmly proposing to annul their marriage, if, at the end of a month, it still proved to be a failure.

He put her hand roughly from him and rose to his feet.

"You don't know what you're talking about, and I refuse to agree—I absolutely refuse." He began to pace the room agitatedly.

Marie watched him with hard eyes, then suddenly she said:

"If it's the money you're thinking about . . . I don't want any. I don't mind not having any. Aunt Madge would let me live with her; we could live quite quietly; it wouldn't cost much."

He turned scarlet.

"The money—good lord! I've never given it a thought." He swung round and looked at her with passionate eyes, and it slowly dawned upon him that there was something very sweet and desirable about Marie Celeste as she sat there in her blue gown, her soft dark hair 222 tumbled about her shoulders, and her brown eyes very bright in the pallor of her face.

With sudden impulse he went down on his knees beside her and put his arms round her, holding her fast.

"Don't be so cruel, Marie Celeste," he said hoarsely. "I know I've not played the game, but I can if you'll give me a chance—I swear I can, and I will! It's the whole of our lives that you're so calmly proposing to smash up. Do you realize that? Have you forgotten all the good times we used to have together—I haven't— and what a little sport you were?"

He saw her wince as if he had hurt her, and he went on eagerly, pushing his advantage.

"Do you remember years ago that you used to say you would never marry anyone but me when we grew up?"

He laughed rather shakily.

"You never thought it would come true, did you, Marie Celeste? I didn't anyway. But it has, and we're going to be ever so happy . . . I swear I've never given a thought to any woman but you. If I've treated you badly, there's no woman in the world I've treated better. I know it's a rotten argument, but . . ."

He stopped, choked by a sudden emotion, for Marie had broken down into bitter crying.

Chris drew her down to his shoulder and kissed her hair. It felt very soft against his lips. He was sure he had conquered, as he thought her tears were tenderness for the past and joy for the future. He did not understand that they were only tears of sorrow for the dream that had gone so sadly awry.

When presently she turned her face away he drew it back again and kissed her lips—he had never kissed them before. The only kisses he had given Marie Celeste in his life had been casual pecks on her cheek when he came from school or went back, and the few awkward kisses he had bestowed upon her since their marriage.

She lay limply against his shoulder, too emotionally wearied to resist him, but her lips were unresponsive.

223 "Is it all right, Marie Celeste?" he asked presently, and she said: "Yes—yes, I suppose so."

He echoed her words with a frown.

"You suppose so?"

This vague acquiescence was not what he had wanted or expected.

"I'll try my best—if you will."

He kissed her hand.

"I give you my word of honor." He twisted the wedding ring on her finger. "It's much too big," he said.

He smiled faintly.

"I've got thinner—that's why."

"You've no right to get thinner," he said hurriedly. "I shall have to look after you and feed you up. Marie Celeste, we're going to have no end of a good time!"

He was his light-hearted self once more. He felt quite happy again. It was surprising how fond he had discovered he really was of Marie Celeste since he had kissed her lips. He could not understand why he had never realized before how pretty she was.

"We'll go away somewhere together," he said impulsively. "Where would you like to go? It will be a fine autumn. Shall we go to the moors—or Ireland? Would you like Ireland?"

She smiled faintly at his impulsiveness.

"I don't mind where it is."

"I'd take you to Italy, only it's not the right time of year," he said. "The spring's the time to go to Italy." He laughed. "Feathers is off there soon, you know! He doesn't care a hang about the proper seasons and all that sort of stuff. He just goes where he feels inclined and when."

"Yes." Her face was averted. "I don't think I should care to go to Italy, anyway," she said. How would it be possible to try and turn over this new leaf, if Feathers was to be anywhere about? A little feeling, that was something like homesickness, touched her heart as she thought of him. Chris was very dear, very boyish in his new 224 humility and enthusiasm, but in her weariness she longed for something more stable, something more real and sincere.

She turned to Chris with wet eyes.

"But you can't make yourself love me." she said sorrowfully.

His face flushed and his eyes grew distressed. He drew her back to lean against him so that her eyes were hidden.

"Perhaps I've always loved you—I don't know," he said with sudden earnestness. "I can't expect you to believe me yet, but . . . perhaps some day, Marie Celeste."

He was doing his best, she knew, but his halting words fell vaguely on her empty heart. She had been right when she said that he could not make himself love her.

But the wings of the past were wrapping them around, and with sudden regret fulness for all she had dreamed and lost, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

"Well, we'll try, shall we?" she whispered. He returned the kiss eagerly. She would see what a model he could be, he promised. He had not been so happy for a long time. He held her at arm's length, his fingers lost in her soft hair.

"You're such a child to be anybody's wife!" he said laughingly.

She shook her head.

"I think I've grown up very quickly." she answered with a sigh.

"Very well, then, I shall have to teach you how to be a child again," he declared. "How's the head? Do you think you could get dressed and come out? I'm going to buy you a present—lots of presents, frocks and all manner of things."

"I'll go out after lunch, but I don't want lots of presents, really, Chris."

"Well, we'll see." He stood up, still holding her hand. He felt as if a load of care had fallen from his shoulders. He wished he had tried this way of managing her before. He supposed he ought to have known that women liked to be kissed and made a fuss of. He really 225 thought that she was as happy and contented as he was. He drew her to her feet and kissed her gain.

"I'm glad I married you, and nobody else, Marie Celeste," he said.

He went out and bought the largest bunch of roses he could find and carried them up to her room. He was desperately anxious to please her. She thanked him with a little empty smile. It was not roses that she wanted, or pearl necklaces, or pretty clothes. She wanted someone really to love her, in all circumstances and for ever and ever.

But she meant to do her best to keep the compact between them; so she took great pains with her toilet to go out with him, and Chris dutifully admired her frock.

"It's a new one, isn't it?" he asked. She had not the heart to tell him that she had worn it half a dozen times on her honeymoon, and that he had not noticed it. The car was at the door ready for them to start, when a taxi, laden with luggage, came swinging up the road and stopped at the curb.

Chris frowned.

"Who the dickens?" he ejaculated, then broke off as the door of the taxi opened and a girl came running up the steps towards them.

She gave a little cry when she saw Marie.

"You dear thing! Then you are in town! I was so afraid you might be away, but I had to chance it! I was on my way home, and then mother wired to me not to come, as one of the boys has scarlet fever! So I took the bull by the horns and dashed to you on the chance that you would be an angel and take me in for a time!"

She kissed Marie and held a hand to Chris. "You dears! How lovely to see you both!"

It was Dorothy Webber.

226