Mrs. Lakeman looked at her old lover triumphantly. "I felt," she said, "that I must have you to myself for a little while. I couldn't bear the presence even of that dear child." Her listener fidgeted a little, but said nothing. "Gerald," her voice trembled, but in the tail of her eye there lurked amusement, "have you hated me all these years?"

"Why should I? You did what you thought was right, and so did I." There was a shade of impatience in his manner, though it was fairly polite.

She felt in an instant that tragedy would be thrown away upon him; she changed her note and tried a suspicion of comedy. "I would have stuck to you through anything else," she said, with a shake of her head and a smile that she meant to be pathetic. "I would have gone to perdition for you with pleasure—in this world."

"Quite so."

"I often think you people who do away with the next get a great pull over us. You see it's going to be such a long business, by all accounts."

"Yes." He looked bored: this sort of joke did not amuse him.

"I couldn't help myself. I couldn't break my father's heart and bring a scandal on the diocese; I was obliged to do what I did," she said, with a little burst.

"Of course, I quite understand that," he answered; "and, to be frank, I think it would be better not to discuss it any more."

"You will always be dear to me," she went on, as if she had not heard him; "and when Cyril told me you were at Chidhurst, I felt that I must write and ask you to come and see me. I nearly took a house there, but it fell through." Mr. Vincent remembered Sir George Stringer's remark, and said nothing. "Perhaps I should have been more eager if I had known—and yet I don't think I could have borne it; I don't think I could have spent a summer there with you and—and—your wife"—she stopped, as if the last word were full of tragedy, and repeated, in a lower tone—"with you and your wife only a mile off. I couldn't bear to see her," and quite suddenly she burst into tears.

Mr. Vincent looked at her awkwardly. She meant him to soothe her, to say something regretful, perhaps to kiss her if he still knew how—she doubted it. But he made no sign, he sat quite still, while she thought him a fool for his pains. After a moment's silence he put out his hand and touched her arm.

"It's a good thing you didn't take the house, then," he said, and that was all.

She brushed her tears away, and wondered for a moment what to do with this wooden man, who seemed incapable of response to any interesting mood of hers.

"Tell me what she is like," she half whispered.

He considered for a moment. "I don't think I am good at describing people," he answered, in quite an ordinary tone.

"I imagine her"—she began and stopped, as though she were trying to keep back just the ghost of a mocking tone that would come into her voice—"a dear, good, useful creature, a clever, managing woman, who looks after everything and makes you thoroughly comfortable."

"I believe I am pretty comfortable," he answered, thoughtfully.

"Oh! And do you help with the farm?" she asked, with a possibility of contempt—it depended on his answer.

"No, I fear I don't do that. I leave it to her and to Hannah. Hannah is her daughter by her first husband."

"I dare say he was very different from you," and her lip curled.

"I don't know whether he was or not—I never saw him." His manner was beginning to be impatient again.

"Tell me one thing more," she said, after a moment's hesitation; "do you love her very much?"

He looked at her almost resentfully. "I fail to see your right to ask that question," he said; "but, since you have done so, I will certainly tell you that I care for her more than I do for any other woman in the world."

"Gerald!" she cried, and burst into tears again; "I feel that you have never forgiven me—that you will always despise me."

"This is nonsense," he said; "and I don't understand what you are driving at. We broke off with each other years ago. You married another man, and presumably you were very happy with him. I married another woman, and am very happy with her, and there is nothing more to be said."

She got up and stood with her back to the dull, smouldering fire; it had been allowed to get low, for the day had been like a summer one.

"Just like you men," she exclaimed, with a little laugh and a sudden change of manner. "You are curious creatures; sometimes I wonder if you are anything more than superior animals. Shake hands, old boy, and let us be friends. We are middle-aged people, both of us. Look at my gray hair." She bent her head almost gayly, and put her finger along a narrow line—"Rather too late for sentiment, isn't it?"

"Yes, I think it is," he was surprised, but distinctly relieved. "Now perhaps you'll tell me when it was that Cyril wrote to you?"

"About two months ago. Poor old chap, his marriage wasn't up to much—ei—ther." She checked the last word and finished it with a gasp. "Awful pity, you know, to marry a woman from a music-hall. Lucky they haven't any children, isn't it?"

"Perhaps it is, on the whole."

"I don't like the account of his health; it sounds as if he is in a bad way."

"I'm afraid he is," Mr. Vincent assented, reluctantly; and then he added, slowly, for he always disliked making any statement concerning himself. "I shall probably go out to him."

"I knew you would," she cried, with a little glow of approval. But he was unresponsive to this, too. "Of course, if anything happened, the title would come to you?"

He looked up with quick indignation. But before he could speak the curtain was drawn and Lena appeared.

"Are you coming to tea?" she asked, taking them both in with a long look. "That sweet thing you brought to me just now and I are waiting for you." She went up to Mr. Vincent and held out her hand. "I have heard so much of you," she said, with perfect self-possession, "and often wished to see you." She opened her large, dark eyes as if to show that they were full of appreciation.

"This is your daughter, I suppose?" he asked her mother.

The question was so like Gerald, Mrs. Lakeman thought; he always made sure of even his most trivial facts.

"Yes, this is my daughter—my ewe lamb, my Lena." She put her arm round Lena's shoulders, and once more there was a thrill in her voice; but still he failed to respond. He looked at them both with a little embarrassment, dramatic situations were beyond him, and he had not the faintest notion what to do next.

Mrs. Lakeman smiled inwardly. The man was a perfect idiot, she thought. "Go, darling," she said, "we are coming."

Lena gave Mr. Vincent another of her long, intense looks as she turned away. "Do come," she said; "I am longing to hear you talk."

"It's very kind of you, but I don't know that I have anything to say." The suspicion of patronage in her manner amused him, but it irritated him too, and he wanted to get out of the house. Mrs. Lakeman made a step towards the curtains through which her daughter had disappeared, then stopped, and, as if with a last great effort she had gathered courage, said, "Tell me one thing—is Margaret like her mother?"

He considered for a moment before he answered. "I think she is," he said, slowly. "She has the same eyes and mouth, and the same distinction of carriage."

"Oh!" The exclamation was almost ironical. Then they went to the dim room with the overpowering scent of flowers. Lena was making tea, while Margaret surveyed the arrangements with great interest. They were so different from any she had seen before. At Woodside Farm a cloth was spread over the oak table in the middle of the room, a loaf and a large pat of butter, a substantial cake, jam, and such other things as might help to make a serviceable meal were set out. Occasionally a savory dish of ham and eggs appeared, or of chicken fried in batter, of which the cooking was a matter of pride to Hannah; plates and knives were put round for each person, and chairs drawn up; altogether it was a much more business-like but far less elegant affair than this dainty one over which Lena presided.

"Good-bye, Margaret dear," Mrs. Lakeman said to her ten minutes later; "you don't know what it has been to me to see you," and she kissed her on either cheek. "You must come and stay with us some day. Gerald, you will let her come, won't you?"

"Certainly, if she wishes it."

"She and Lena must be friends; our children ought to be friends. And you and I," she said, with deeper feeling in her voice, "must not lose sight of each other again."

"Of course not," he answered, and this time he managed to look at her with his old smile, in which there had always been a charm. It went to her heart and made her a natural woman. With something like a sigh she watched him as he descended the stairs.

"I could love him now," she thought, "and go to the devil for him too, with all the pleasure in the world. But he's so abominably good that he will probably be faithful to his farmer woman till the breath is out of his body."

"Well, would you like to go and stay there some day?" Mr. Vincent asked Margaret.

"No," she answered, quickly, and then she added, reluctantly, and because she couldn't help it; "I don't know why it is, father, but I feel as if I never wanted to go there again."

"That's right," he said. What the answer meant she didn't quite understand, but she rubbed her shoulder against his in sheer sympathy. A hansom gives little scope for variety in caresses, but this did well enough.