IT was impossible to be ungracious. Marie took Dorothy Webber into the drawing-room while Chris sent the car away. He stood looking after it with a frown above his eyes. It was rotten luck, Dorothy turning up like this just as everything had been going so swimmingly and he was conscious of a vague apprehension.

He joined the girls in the drawing-room for tea, and Miss Chester came down, bringing her eternal knitting.

She was pleased to see Dorothy, for she thought she would be a nice companion for Marie. She said that she hoped she would stay a long time. She could not understand why Chris was so silent or why he kept looking at his wife with a queer sort of chagrin in his face.

"I'm looking forward to another round with you," Dorothy said, turning to him. "Of course, there are lots of links round about?"

"I'm going to teach Marie to play," Chris said. He had made up his mind that if they went away he would teach her and had been looking forward to it. He felt decidedly annoyed with Dorothy for having what he chose to call "butted in."

He sulked about the house till dinner-time, then went to Marie's room as she was changing her frock. His eyes were rueful as he looked at her. "It's the devil's own luck, isn't it?" he said boyishly.

"What do you mean—about Dorothy?"

"Yes. Why the dickens she wanted to come here I'm hanged if I know!"

Marie smiled faintly.

227 "Well, we both said we should be pleased to see her at any time, didn't we?"

"I know—but coming just now!" He took up one of her silver brushes and fingered it nervously. "I was looking forward to taking you away, Marie Celeste."

"Perhaps she won't stay long," Marie said, with an effort.

She did not know if she were glad or sorry that Dorothy had so unexpectedly intervened. She had rather dreaded going away with Chris, and yet it had been a relief to know that at last there was some sort of an understanding between them.

Dorothy monopolized most of the conversation at dinner time, and addressed herself chiefly to Chris. She was a pleasant-looking girl, very brown-skinned and healthy, with straightforward gray eyes and fair hair, which she wore brushed back and screwed into rather a business-like and unbecoming knob.

She talked a great deal about golf, and seemed rather surprised at Chris' lack of enthusiasm. She kept looking at Marie in a puzzled sort of way.

During those weeks in Scotland she had formed her own opinion of this marriage, and therefore had not had the least hesitation in throwing herself on Marie's hospitality. A man who had been married so short a time and who could leave his wife at home while he spent a month in Scotland playing golf would certainly not object to a third person in the house. So she argued, with some reason, as she unpacked her boxes and settled down comfortably in the best spare room.

"It's ages since I was in London for any time," she said. "I'm going to enjoy myself thoroughly. Marie, where do you buy your frocks? They make mine look as if they came out of the ark, don't they?"

Marie laughed. She had been very fond of this girl at school, but lately all her old affections seemed somehow to have shifted. The fault was in herself, she knew, so she tried her best to be nice to Dorothy to make up for the old feeling that was no longer in her heart.

228 "I'll take you to all the shops." she said. "We'll have a long day to-morrow."

"And where do I come in?" Chris asked quickly. His eyes were pleading as they looked at his wife.

"Men always hate shopping, don't they?" Dorothy chimed in. "They always look dreadfully out of place, anyway, poor dears."

"Well, I'll be the happy exception to prove the rule," Chris declared, and he kept his word. He trudged round the West End with his wife and Dorothy the following morning, and did his best not to appear bored. He took them to lunch at the Savoy, and escorted them to more shops afterwards.

"I think you've got a model husband," Dorothy said, when at last they drove home. "I never would have believed he was capable of it when we were up in Scotland. It only shows how one can be deceived."

But Chris gave a deep sigh of relief when they reached home. He went off to the dining-room and mixed himself a strong whiskey. He felt irritable, though he tried manfully to suppress his irritation. What waste of time it all was, he thought—trudging round on hot pavements, in and out stuffy, uninteresting shops, when one might be out in the country or up on the Scotch moors.

For three days he did his duty nobly. He was always in to meals—he took Marie and Dorothy to a matinee, and to dinner at the Carlton.

"We ought to have had another man to make a fourth," he said to his wife afterwards. "I'll ask Feathers to come to-morrow."

He did ask him, and Feathers refused. He had an appointment, he said, and would come another day.

"What about Italy?" Chris inquired over the 'phone, and Feathers said that he expected to go in about ten days' time.

Chris told Marie.

"We ought to ask him round before he goes," he said. "You write and ask him to dinner, Marie Celeste."

She wanted to refuse, but did not like to.

229 "Very well." She was looking pale and tired, and Chris' eyes watched her anxiously.

After a moment he asked:

"How long is Miss Webber going to stay?"

"I don't know. I can't very well ask her to go, can I?" Chris mooned around the room.

"I wish she'd go," he said inhospitably.

Marie smiled.

"I'm afraid you've had rather a dull week," she admitted. "Why don't you go for a day's golf to-morrow. Take Dorothy—she would love it, I know."

"I'll go if you come."

"Nonsense. You know how tired I got when we went before. I shall be quite all right at home, and I do hate to know you are tied to the house all day."

He looked hurt, and she hastened to add kindly: "It's been very good of you, Chris, and I do thank you."

He laid his hand on her shoulder.

"If you're pleased that's all I care about," he said. . . .

To Marie's surprise. Feathers rang up and accepted her invitation.

She answered the 'phone herself, and the sound of his voice sent her pulses racing, and the hot blood rushing to her cheeks.

"Do I have to get into war paint?" he asked, and she laughed as she said that he could please himself.

"Why haven't you been to see us before?" she questioned.

"Because I knew you had company, and I haven't any company manners."

"It's only Dorothy Webber—you met her in Scotland."

"Yes. . . ." There was a little pause, and before she could think of anything else to say he said: "Well, I shall see you this evening, then."

"Yes."

Marie sighed as she hung up the receiver. She wished he had refused to come, and yet she was longing to see him. She felt painfully nervous as the evening drew nearer.

230 Chris had driven out into the country with Dorothy to play golf, and for the first time for a week Marie found herself with a little breathing space.

Chris' attentions had been rather overwhelming. He had done his best, she knew, and was grateful to him for it, but he left her rather breathless. She could never lose sight of the fact that his affections were forced and wondered how much longer he would be able to keep up the farce.

She never gave herself a moment in which to think. She never looked forward, but lived in the present only.

Chris had said he should be home at six, but at seven o'clock, when Feathers was announced, he had not returned.

Marie went down to the drawing-room with a trembling heart. She had hoped that her husband would have been home before Feathers came. She knew that her face was white as she crossed the room to him and that her voice was unsteady as she said:

"Chris hasn't got back yet—I am so sorry. He promised to be in at six! I am afraid something has gone wrong with the car."

"It's not very late," Feathers said kindly. "I think I am rather before my time. He is sure to be in directly."

Marie walked over to the window and looked into the street. The September evening was closing in rapidly, with rather depressing greyness.

"I hope nothing has happened to them," she said faintly. She was not at all anxious really, but she felt that she must gain time to recover her composure before she could talk to Feathers.

He watched her across the room with sad eyes. He had not seen her since that day on the golf links, and he took in every detail of her graceful little figure hungrily.

She was wearing a white frock of some gauzy material, cut rather low, and her soft brown hair curled into little ringlets like a child's on the white nape of her neck.

Was she any happier, he wondered? He knew that Chris had been about with her a great deal during the past week, and he hoped with all 231 his heart that things were improving between them. He longed to ask her, but was afraid. He knew that the only safe thing for them was to keep to ordinary topics of conversation.

Marie dropped the curtain presently and came back to him.

"What have you been doing with yourself?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, nothing in particular. Yesterday I played golf with young Atkins. He asked after you."

"Did he?" Her eyes brightened. "I wish I could see him again."

"He tells me he is going to America shortly. He has been in his father's office, you know, but they don't get on, and so I think it's very wise of him to clear out."

"And you are going to Italy?" Marie said constrainedly. "Chris suggested that we should go, too, but—but I don't think I care to."

"It's the wrong time of year to see Italy to advantage."

"Yes, I know."

She looked at him wistfully. So strong, such a man! Longing to know the perfect happiness of his love crept into her heart.

There would be no half measures with him, she knew; no pretences. He would give all or nothing.

In spite of what he had said, Feathers had struggled into evening clothes. They did not fit him particularly well, but they seemed to magnify the squareness and strength of his build. Though he was not so tall as Chris, he always looked taller, and, despite his ugly features, there was something very noble in the rough outline of his head and shaggy hair.

"Where are they playing to-day?" he asked, breaking a silence that was beginning to get unbearable, and Marie said:

"Where we went before—the place where Mrs. Heriot is staying."

"Oh!" There was something dry in the little monosyllable that made her say impulsively: "I suggested it. Chris has been so unselfish 232 lately, taking us about all over the place, I thought he deserved a holiday—he likes playing with Dorothy, you know."

"Yes." There was the sound of a car driving up outside, and Feathers said, with obvious relief: "Here they are, I expect."

Chris came into the room a moment later. He looked at his wife anxiously.

"I'm sorry, Marie Celeste," he said. "The wretched car broke down, and it took me half an hour to get it right. I hope you haven't been anxious about us? How are you, old chap?"

The two men shook hands.

"Where is Dorothy?" Marie asked, and Chris looked away from her as he said, "I believe she went straight upstairs to dress."

"I'll go and tell her not to hurry."

Marie ran up to her friend's room, glad to get away for a moment. She knocked at the door, and, getting no answer, turned the handle and went in. Dorothy was standing in the middle of the room, her hands over her face. She had made no attempt to change her frock, and she still wore her coat and the jaunty velvet cap with a jay's wing at the side in which she had started out that morning.

Marie gave a little stifled cry.

"Dorothy! Oh, what is the matter?"

Dorothy started violently. She dabbed her eyes hurriedly with her handkerchief and tried to laugh.

"Nothing! Don't look so scared! I'm only rather worried." She turned away to hide her face. "I've had a letter with rather bad news. No, I can't tell you now—it's nothing! Please, go down and I'll be ready in a minute. I'm so sorry we're late, Marie. The silly car went wrong."

"I know. Chris told me. Dorothy, are you sure there is nothing the matter—nothing I can do for you?"

"Quite sure! Run downstairs, there's a dear; I won't be a minute." She almost turned Marie out of the room.

233 Chris was coming upstairs as she crossed the landing, and he stopped looking at her in quick concern.

"Anything the matter, Marie Celeste?"

"No, only—Chris, Dorothy is crying so! She won't tell me what is the matter. She says she's had bad news in a letter."

He went to his room, abruptly.

"It's probably nothing; I shouldn't worry."

His voice sounded rather strange and unnatural, and Marie was puzzled as she went slowly downstairs.

The postman had just been and one of the servants was sorting the letters at the hall table. Marie went up to her.

"Greyson, were there any letters for Miss Webber by the afternoon post?"

"No, ma'am—none! Only two for Miss Chester."

Marie's brown eyes dilated.

"There has only been the one post since the early morning, hasn't there?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you." She went on to the drawing-room, with a little feeling of apprehension.

Dorothy had lied to her, then. Why? She thought of the strained note in Chris' voice as he spoke to her on the landing, and a nameless fear crept into her heart.

Chris talked incessantly during dinner. Marie had never seen him so gay, and though she tried her best to kill it, the suspicion that he knew the cause of Dorothy's distress, grew in her heart.

Something had happened between them that afternoon.

"You ladies are very quiet," Feathers said, turning to her, and Marie roused herself with an effort.

Dorothy Webber was almost silent. Her head ached, she said; she thought it must have been the sun that afternoon.

"You played a fine game," Chris told her. "I shall have to look to my laurels." She did not answer, seemed not to have heard, and Marie asked, "Did you see Mrs. Heriot?"

"Yes. She and her sister had a foursome with us." It was Chris who 234 answered "She told me to give you her love." he added with a twinkle, "and to say that she should be in town to-morrow and would call to see you."

It was in the tip of Marie's tongue to say that she would not be in, but she checked the words. After all, Mrs. Heriot did not matter to her. She was no longer actively jealous.

The dinner was hardly a success.

"What's the matter with everyone?" Dorothy asked impatiently as she and Marie followed Miss Chester to the drawing-room. "Didn't you think we were all very dull?" she appealed to the old lady.

"I really didn't notice, my dear," Miss Chester answered complacently. "I have just worked it out in my mind, and I believe I shall finish that shawl in another three days."

Marie laughed. "And how long has it taken you to work, dear?"

"Nearly two years, but then I worked slowly, and my sight is not so good as it used to be," Miss Chester answered.

Marie took up a fold of the shawl. It was exquisitely soft and of the finest pattern.

"It would make a lovely shawl for a baby," she said, and then flushed, meeting her aunt's eyes. She got up and went over to the piano, and began turning over some music. She knew the thought that had been in Miss Chester's mind, and her heart ached. Young as she was herself Marie loved children, and one very tender dream had gone crashing to earth with the ruins when her castle fell.

Dorothy had flung herself into an armchair, her arms folded behind her head, her eyes fixed moodily on the ceiling.

There was a softened, chastened look about her this evening. The masculinity which was usually her chief characteristic seemed to have gone, leaving in its place something of greater attraction.

"Play something, Marie," she said suddenly, but Marie shook her head. "I don't feel in the mood for music." She dragged up a stool 235 and sat down at Miss Chester's feet. Across the hall she could hear Feathers' voice and Chris' laugh, and she listened to both with a queer feeling of unreality.

"What an ugly man Mr. Dakers is!" Dorothy said suddenly. "I don't think I ever saw anyone so ugly before."

The color rushed to Marie's face.

"I don't think he is in the very least bit ugly," she said impulsively. "There is something in his face when he smiles that is far better than just ordinary good looks. What do you think, Aunt Madge?"

She felt angry with Dorothy. All her heart flew to Feathers' defence.

"I always liked Mr. Dakers," Miss Chester said mildly. "He is a good man and a gentleman." She said the same thing of all Chris' friends. She could never see evil in anyone.

Dorothy laughed.

"Like him, yes! But he's ugly, all the same!" she insisted. "He doesn't like me, you know."

Nobody answered.

"We had lots of little tiffs when we were up in Scotland," she went on defiantly. "I always believe that he left Chris and came home alone because he couldn't stand the sight of me."

"My dear child!" Miss Chester remonstrated.

"So I do," she reiterated. "He told me once that the modern girl was a horror. I think he thought it was disgraceful because I played golf all day long with Chris and without a chaperon."

"Mr. Dakers isn't a bit narrow-minded," Marie said hotly.

Dorothy shrugged her shoulders.

"And I don't like Mrs. Heriot either," she said irrelevantly. "You never told me anything about her, Marie."

"She is a friend of Chris', not mine."

"Oh! And his friends are not yours—eh?"

Marie did not answer. She had never seen Dorothy in such a quarrelsome mood.

236 The men joined them from the dining-room and Chris came to his wife at once.

"On the stool of repentance?" he asked. "Why don't you have a chair?"

"I'm quite comfortable, thank you." She leaned her head against Miss Chester's knee with a little snuggling movement, and the old lady stopped in her work for a movement to stroke the girl's dark hair.

"I've just remembered," she said, "that I've got some tickets for that Westminster bazaar to-morrow, Marie. Some of us really ought to go. I promised the vicar we would. Couldn't you and Dorothy just run in for half an hour?"

Marie made a little grimace.

"I hate bazaars," she said.

Dorothy looked across the room at Chris.

"I think I ought to go home to-morrow," she said. "I've been here over a week. You'll all be sick to death of me."

"Of course, we shan't," Marie cried. She was touched by the hard note of unhappiness in her friend's voice, and stretched out her hand to her. "Don't go, Dorothy. They can't have finished with the scarlet fever yet."

"I shall have to see. I dare say I shall hear from home in the morning."

She excused herself presently on the plea of headache and went to bed. She shook hands with Feathers and kissed Marie and Miss Chester, but Marie noticed with a queer little shrinking at her heart that she seemed to avoid Chris altogether, and her thoughts went back with unwilling suspicion to the moment when she had found Dorothy crying.

"Dorothy doesn't look well," Miss Chester said, as the door closed behind the elder girl. "I really think all this golf is too much for her. She ought to take a rest and do something less strenuous."

"Knitting shawls, for instance, eh, dear?" Marie asked tenderly. The old lady looked over her glasses.

"It would do her no harm," she said severely.

237 It was only ten o'clock when Feathers left, and Chris said he would walk part of the way with him.

"I shan't be long," he said to Marie. "But it's so hot indoors, and I must get a breath of air."

She said good-night to them both in the hall, and after they had gone she stood for a moment looking at the closed door with a feeling of desolation. She had counted so much on this evening, and on seeing Feathers, and now he had gone—and nothing had happened, nothing been said!

She did not know what she had expected to happen or what she had hoped he would say, but she was conscious of bitter disappointment as she went up to bed.

It seemed as if she must have dreamed about those moments on Sunday when he had let her know that he loved her—that they could never have been real, and in her heart she knew that she was not satisfied. She wanted more than the little he had given.

She heard Chris come in just after she had gone to bed, and her heart thudded nervously as his step crossed the landing and stopped outside her door; but he went on again, and presently silence fell on the house.

And Marie fell asleep, to dream the old, terrible dream that she once more was drowning—that she was sinking down, down into bottomless depths of clear green water, and she woke, shivering and fighting for breath. Her face and the palms of her hands were wet with perspiration.

She sat up in bed and turned on the light. Only a Dream! She looked round the room with thankful eyes and yet . . . it would have been such a simple answer to all her troubles if Feathers had only let her drown that summer's morning.

* * * * * * * * * *