Four months after Marston reached England, Wyndham came home. He had got thin and, when he was quiet, looked worn, but he had returned in triumph and soon persuaded Marston that his efforts had earned a rich reward. Things had gone better than his letters indicated.

On the evening of his arrival, he waited in Flora's drawing-room for Chisholm, who had not yet got back from his office at the port. Electric lights burned above the mantel and Wyndham sat by the cheerful fire, with Flora in a low chair opposite. For a time she had listened while he talked, and now her eyes rested on him with keen but tranquil satisfaction. Harry had come back, as she had known he would come, like a conqueror. She was proud that he had justified her trust, and although it had been hard to let him go, this did not matter.

She was ashamed of her hesitation when he first declared himself her lover, but the suspicion that she was rash had not lasted long. Flora was loyal and when she had accepted him looked steadily forward. It was not her habit to doubt and look back. One thing rather disturbed her; Harry was obviously tired. Before he went away his talk and laugh were marked by a curious sparkle that Flora thought like the sparkle of wine. This had gone, but, in a way, she liked him better, although his sober mood was new.By-and-by he glanced about the room, which was rather plainly furnished, but with a hint of artistic taste. Chisholm was not rich and the taste was Flora's. Then he moved his chair and leaned forward to the fire with a languid smile.

"Our English cold is bracing, but it bites keen when one has known the tropics," he said. "I like light and warmth."

"You got both on the Caribbean," Flora remarked.

"No," said Wyndham, "not much light. For a few hours, the glare was dazzling, but soon the shadow crept back from the bush and the fever-mist floated about the boat. On the creek and at the village, you got a sense of gloom that never melted." He paused and added with a smile: "It's often like that in the tropics, and the gloom is not altogether physical."

Flora noted the thinness of his face and his pallor. Her glance got soft and pitiful.

"My dear!" she said. "I wanted you to win; not that I cared for your winning, but because I wanted you to satisfy others who do not know you so well."

"Your father, for example?" he rejoined with a twinkle. "Well, he took the proper line, but I think I have some arguments that will persuade him."

"I sent you," she said, with a touch of color. "Afterwards I saw that I was shabby and vain. I ought not to have let you go. What did it matter about the others, when I was satisfied? You have won and they will own this, but I'm afraid it has cost you much."

Wyndham gave her a rather sharp glance and then smiled. "One must pay for what one gets, but, if it's much comfort, I was very willing.""You were always generous, but I'm afraid you're sometimes rash."

"The rashness was justified. If I had to choose again, I'd stake my all, fortune, mind, and body, and think the risk worth while."

"You're very nice," said Flora, and added with a blush: "But, in one way, there was no risk. Even if you had been beaten, I would have persuaded father. It was rather for his sake you went than mine and that's why I'm half ashamed. But he deserved something; he has long indulged me."

She got up. There were steps in the passage, and Chisholm came in. Wyndham stayed for dinner and afterwards went with Chisholm to his smoking-room and gave him a document.

"My book-keeper drafted the statement, because I thought you ought to know where I stand," he said. "The sum indicated could be invested for Flora. Not much of a marriage settlement of course, but perhaps it will help to banish your very natural doubts."

Chisholm studied the paper with some surprise. "You have done much better than I thought; I don't know if this is flattering or not. In fact, when one remembers that you have not long been head of the house, your success is rather remarkable."

"I ran some risks," said Wyndham, smiling. "We have got started; perhaps I'm optimistic, but I came home persuaded we are going on. It's possible we may go far."

"You have a good partner," Chisholm remarked.

"The best!" Wyndham agreed quietly.

Chisholm liked his hint of feeling, but hesitated, although there was no obvious reason for this. He liked Wyndham, and the latter was on the way to mend his fortune. All the same, he shrank, rather illogically, from giving his formal consent to the wedding.

"Well," he said, with something of an effort, "I'm glad your affairs are going as well as you hoped and I suppose you now expect me to keep my promise. I've no grounds to refuse and you can marry Flora when she is ready."

Wyndham went soon afterwards and Chisholm said to Flora, "You declared Harry would force me to approve and he has done so."

"What do you approve?" Flora asked, smiling.

"Oh, well," said Chisholm, "I think I see what you suggest. Looks as if I must be frank. Since my duty is to take care of you, it's a big relief to find Harry is a good business man and is going to make Wyndhams' prosperous. I like to feel he's able to give you all you ought to have."

Flora's glance was proud. "I want you to be satisfied, and it was for this I let Harry go. I would not have hesitated had he come back disappointed and poor. Now I feel half cheated, because, in one way, he doesn't need my help."

"You are a plucky girl," said Chisholm. "Still I expect it's better he has come back rich. After all, romance wears off, and then, if money's short, the strain begins."

"Your philosophy's not very good," Flora rejoined with a laugh. "Real romance never wears off; the strain's the test that marks the difference between the true and false. However, since you have carried out your duty and used a caution that's rather new, you ought to be happy."

She kissed him and he let her go, but he was thoughtful afterwards. He felt he ought to be happy, but somehow he was not. By-and-by he got up and went to meet Mabel and Marston, whom he heard come in. A famous Shakespearian actor was visiting the town and Marston had called to suggest that they should see the play together. They fixed a night, without knowing in which of his favorite parts the tragedian would appear. Mabel said this was not important, because he was good in all.

When the car stopped at the theater she went with Flora to the cloak-room and began to take off her furs in front of a long glass. As she did so she hesitated, because she remembered something she ought to have remembered before. It was too late now, for as the cloak slipped off her shoulders a string of small pearls caught the light. Flora had not long since said she liked pearls. Then Mabel saw that Flora had seen the pearls, and thought she had noted her hesitation, because she smiled.

"They are very pretty," Flora remarked. "I suppose Bob gave them to you?"

"They are small," said Mabel deprecatingly, but not because she did not value her lover's present. "Bob said something about their not getting any Harry thought good enough to send home."

"Bob and you are very nice, but you're sometimes obvious," Flora rejoined. "However, I'm not jealous, and if the pearls are small, they stand for much.""These stand for endurance and bold adventure. I think Bob did not get them easily."

"That would not matter to Bob," said Flora. "But I wonder what they cost the others, the dark-skinned men who found them on the sands beneath the Caribbean. Pearls, you know, sometimes stand for tears." She moved from the glass, for the room was filling, and smiled as she resumed: "I don't know why I indulge a morbid sentiment when I'm happy. You will never have much grounds to cry for Bob."

They went down a passage and found their places in the stalls. The house was full and Marston had engaged such seats as he could get. Wyndham, Flora and Chisholm were in front; Mabel and Marston in the row behind.

"Macbeth!" he said as he gave Mabel a program. "Rather curious; but I like the play. Kind of plot one can understand."

"Why is it curious?" Mabel asked. "Don't you understand them all?"

"Not like this," said Marston, with a touch of awkwardness. "The motto—or d'you call it the motive?—is plain from the start. 'Ambition that over-leaps itself,' if I'm quoting right."

Mabel said nothing. Bob was not clever, but he was sometimes shrewd and she saw what was in his mind. This was easier because he looked uncomfortable. The poor fellow felt he had not been quite loyal to his friend. Then Mabel frowned. Perhaps Bob had seen clearly; there was a parallel.

The lights went out and when the curtain rose Marston tried to banish his disturbing thoughts and enjoy the play. He had seen it often, but the story gripped him with a force he had not felt before. All was well done. Pale flames played round the witches' cauldron, and there was something strangely suggestive about the bent figures that hovered about the fire and faded in the gloom. He had sometimes thought the witch-scene unnecessary, but now he felt its significance. In Shakespeare's days, men believed in witchcraft, and when one had been in Africa one owned there were powers that ruled the dark. Bob was quiet and listened, with his mouth firmly set.

A line caught his notice: "Her husband's to Aleppo gone, the master of the Tiger." Marston had not thought much about this before, but he saw the strange, high-pooped old vessel, manned by merchant adventurers, plunge across the surges of the Levant. She was a type; there were always merchant adventurers, and he pictured Columbine rolling on the African surf.

Then for a time he let the play absorb him. The witches were tempting Macbeth, flattering his ambition, promising him power. The gloom and the flickering light round the cauldron recalled Africa; Marston had seen the naked factory boys crouch beside their fires, tapping little drums, and singing strange, monotonous songs that sounded like incantations. He thought about Rupert Wyndham; witches were numerous in Africa and Marston wondered what they had promised him. Was it power? Or knowledge the cautious white man shuns? Marston glanced at Wyndham, in front. He had not spoken since the curtain rose and the pose of his head indicated that his eyes were fixed on the stage. He was very still and Marston thought the drama had seized his imagination.

The cauldron fire leaped up, throwing red reflections that touched a figure moving in the gloom. Marston wondered whether his eyes were dazzled, for the hooded figure began to look like the Bat. Then there was a flash, the witches vanished, and he felt a strange relief when the curtain fell and the lights went up.

"Very well done! A realistic scene!" Wyndham remarked, looking round. "Did you know it was Macbeth, Bob?"

"I did not," said Marston. "If I had known, I think I'd have picked another night."

Wyndham looked hard at him, and then laughed and began to talk to Flora, but Marston felt jarred. Harry laughed like that in moments of tension when others swore. Then he saw that Mabel was studying him.

"You are quiet, Bob," she said.

"It's long since I saw a good play," Marston replied. "My first relaxation since I got to work, and I expect it grips me harder because it's fresh. Full house, isn't it? Do you know many people?"

"I see one or two friends of yours. They have been looking at you, but you wouldn't turn."

"I didn't see them," said Marston. "I've got the habit of dropping people since I joined Wyndhams'. Regular work is something of a novelty and while the newness lasts you get absorbed. I don't know if it's good or not. What do you think?"

Mabel laughed. "Well done, Bob! It cost you something, but you felt you ought to talk.""It oughtn't to have cost me anything," said Marston apologetically. "But how did you know?"

"My dear, you're honest and obvious. Besides, we do know things, by instinct perhaps. I would always know when you were disturbed."

"I'm not disturbed. You are here."

"Ah," said Mabel, "now you're very nice! But let's be frank. You were thinking about another drama, in real life, that touches you close. I see one comfort; there's no Lady Macbeth in the piece."

Marston agreed and mused. The light was good, and touched Mabel's face and neck where the small pearls shone. He saw Flora's face in profile, her shoulders, and the flowing curve of her arm. He liked the fine poise of her head. She looked proud and somehow vivid; one got a hint of her fearless, impulsive character. Her hair and eyes were brown and she wore a corn-yellow dress. Mabel's skin was white and red, and her dull-blue clothes matched the color of her eyes. She was calm, steadfast, and sometimes reserved, a contrast to Flora, although in ways they were alike. Both were honest and hated what was mean. Marston felt comforted. There was no Lady Macbeth in the piece.

Moreover, a glance along the rows of people was calming. There were business men with shining, bald heads, and some younger whose clothes were cut in the latest mode. Women of different ages, for the most part fashionably dressed, sat among the others, but all wore the conventional English stamp. There was nothing extravagant about them; Marston thought they sat contentedly by modern hearths. They were not the people to follow wandering fires. Perhaps he was something of a romantic fool; but when one had been in Africa and the swamps beside the Caribbean—

The play went on. He saw Macbeth's ambitions realized. The witches' promises were fulfilled, but with fulfillment came retribution that had looked impossible. This was the touch that fixed Marston's thought. Macbeth was cheated, but he must pay; the powers of evil lied. One wondered whether it was always like that.

When the curtain fell and the lights went up shortly before the end, Marston remarked: "After all there were the witches. Lady Macbeth was, so to speak, unnecessary."

Mabel had indulged him before; indeed, his mood had chimed with hers, but she thought he had followed this line far enough. His illness had left a mark, and he sometimes brooded. She laughed when Flora turned.

"Bob's getting to be a dramatic critic and something of a philosopher," she said. "Perhaps he'll tell you how he would improve the play."

"You know what I mean," Marston replied good-humoredly. "Aren't a man's greed and ambition enough to drive him on, without an outside tempter?"

"Without a bad woman to urge him?" Flora suggested.

"When one comes to think of it, a good woman might be as dangerous as the other," said Marston.

Mabel frowned. She saw where her lover's remark led, but doubted if the others did. She forced a laugh when Wyndham looked round.

"Bob has a flash of imagination now and then," she said."I expect Bob would sooner leave out the witches, now he knows something about Ghost Leopards and Voodoo," Wyndham replied. "Anyhow, I think the mummery round the cauldron rather crude; the act was, no doubt, written to meet the spirit of the times. Temptation by repulsive hags would not appeal to an up-to-date young man. My notion of a tempter is an urbanely ironical Mephistopheles."

Marston said nothing. He remembered the Bat's strange, mocking grin; and then roused himself and laughed. He was getting morbid; the wretched fever had shaken him. He joked with Flora until the curtain rose and when it came down on the closing scene resolved to forget the play.

"I've ordered supper. It will brace us up," he said.

They went to a crowded restaurant, and Marston liked the tinkle of glass, voices, and cheerful laughter, but he shivered when they left the glittering room and got into the car.

"Put the rug round you before we start," said Mabel.

"I think I will," Marston replied, apologetically. "I feel as if my temperature was up; malaria has an annoying trick of coming back. When it does come back, you get moody and pessimistic. Sorry if I bored you to-night!"

"Perhaps it was malaria, but I wasn't bored," said Mabel, with an indulgent smile.