George had rowed to a point where a deep indentation in the shore of the river offered a broad expanse of water in which there was but little current. He rested on his oars, bending his head and leaning slightly forward. It seemed very hard that he should suddenly be called upon to decide so important a question as had just arisen, at the very moment when he was writing the most difficult and interesting part of his book. To go away was not only to deprive himself of many things which he liked, and among those Mamie’s own society had taken the foremost place of late; it meant also to break the current of his ideas and to arrest his own progress at the most critical juncture. He remembered with loathing the days he had spent in his little room in New York, cudgelling his inert brain and racking his imagination for a plot, a subject, for one single character, for anything of which he might make a beginning. And he looked back to a nearer time, and saw how easily his mind had worked amidst its new and pleasant surroundings. It is no wonder that he hesitated. Only the artist can understand his own interest in his art; only the writer, and the writer of real talent, can tell what acute suffering it is to be interrupted in the midst of a piece of good work, while its success is still uncertain in the balance of his mind and while he still depends largely upon outward circumstances for the peace and quiet which are necessary to serious mental labour.

George was not heroic, though there was a touch of quixotism in his nature. The temptation to stay where he was, had a force he had not expected. Moreover, whether he would or not, the expression he had twice seen in Mamie’s face on that afternoon, haunted him and fascinated him. He experienced the operation of a charm unknown before. He looked up and gazed at the young girl as she sat far back in the stern of the boat. She was not pretty, or at most, not more than half pretty. Her mouth was decidedly far too large, and her nose lacked outline. She had a fairly good forehead; he admitted that much, but her chin was too pointed and had little modelling in it, while her cheeks would have been decidedly uninteresting but for the extreme beauty of her complexion. She was looking down, and he could not see the grey eyes which were her best feature, but it could not be denied that the long dark drooping lashes and the strongly marked brown eyebrows contrasted very well with the transparent skin. Her hair was not bad, though it was impossible to say whether those little tangled ringlets were natural or were produced daily by the skilful appliance of artificial torsion. If her mouth was an exaggerated feature, at least the long, even lips were fresh and youthful, and, when parted, they disclosed a very perfect set of teeth. All this was true, and as George looked, he summed up the various points and decided that when Mamie wore her best expression, she might pass for a pretty girl.

But she possessed more than that. The catalogue did not explain her wonderful charm. It was not, indeed, complete, and as he glanced from her downcast face to the outlines of her shapely figure, he felt the sensation a man experiences in turning quickly from the examination of a common object, to the contemplation of one that is very beautiful. Psyche herself could have boasted no greater perfection of form and grace than belonged to this girl whose features were almost all insignificant. The triumph of proportion began at her throat, under the small ears that were set so close to the head, and the faultless lines continued throughout all the curves of beauty to the point of her exquisite foot, to the longest finger of her classic hand. Not a line was too short, not a line too long, there was no straightness in any one, and not one of them all followed too strong a curve.

George thought of Constance and made comparisons with a coolness that surprised himself. Constance was tall, straight, well grown, active; slight, indeed, but graceful enough, and gifted with much natural ease in motion. But that was all, so far as figure was concerned. George had seen a hundred girls with just the same advantages as Constance, and all far prettier than his cousin. Neither Constance nor any of them could compare with Mamie except in face. His eye rested on her now, when she was in repose, with untiring satisfaction, as his sight delighted in each new surprise of motion when she moved, whether on horseback, or walking, or at tennis. She represented to him the absolute ideal of refined animal life, combined with something spiritual that escaped definition, but which made itself felt in all she did and said.

When he thought of depriving himself for a long time of her society, he discovered that he admired her far more than he had suspected. It was admiration, but it was nothing more. He felt no pain at the suggestion of leaving her, but it seemed as though he were about to be robbed of some object familiar to him, to keep which was a source of unfailing, though indolent, satisfaction. He could not imagine himself angry, if some man of his acquaintance had married Mamie the next day, provided that he might talk to her as he pleased and watch her when he liked. There was not warmth enough in what he felt for her to kindle one spark of jealousy against any one whom she might choose for a husband.

But there was something added to the odd sort of attraction which the girl exercised over him, something which had only begun to influence him during the last quarter of an hour or less. She loved him, and he had just found it out. There is nothing more enviable than to love and be loved in return, and nothing more painful than to be loved to distraction by a person one dislikes. It may be said, perhaps, that nothing can be so disturbing to the judgment as to be loved by an individual to whom one feels oneself strongly attracted in a wholly different way. George Wood did not know exactly what was happening to him, and he did not feel himself able to judge his own case with any sort of impartiality; but his instinct told him to go away as soon as possible and to break off all intercourse with his cousin during some time to come. She had argued the question with him in her own way and had found answers to all he said, but he was not satisfied. It was his duty to leave Mamie, no matter at what cost, and he meant to go at once.

“My dear Mamie,” he said at last, still unconsciously admiring the grace of her attitude, “I am very sorry for myself, but there is only one way. I cannot stay here any longer.”

She raised her eyes and looked steadily at him.

“On my account?” she asked.

“Yes, and you know I am right.”

“Because I have been foolish and—and—unmaidenly, I suppose.”

“Dear child—how you talk!” George exclaimed. “I never said anything of the kind!” He was seriously embarrassed to find an answer to her statement.

“Of course you did not say it. But you probably thought it, which is the same thing. After all, it is true, you know. But then, have I not a right to be foolish, if I please? I have known you so long.”

“Yes indeed!” George answered with alacrity, for he was glad to be able to agree with her in something. “It is a long time, as you say—ever since we were children together.”

“Then you think there was nothing so very bad about what I said?”

“It was thoughtless—I do not know what it was. There was certainly nothing bad in it, and besides, you did not mean it, you know, did you?”

“Then why do you want to go away?” inquired Mamie, with feminine logic, and candour.

“Why because——” George stopped as people often do, at that word, well knowing what he had been about to say, but now suddenly unwilling to say it. In fact, to say anything under the circumstances would have been a flagrant breach of tact. Since Mamie almost admitted that she had meant nothing, she had only been making fun of him and he could not well think of going away without seeming ridiculous in his own eyes.

“’Because,’ without anything after it, is only a woman’s reason,” said the young girl with a laugh.

“Women’s reasons are sometimes the best. At all events, I have often heard you say so.”

“I am often laughing at you, when I seem most in earnest, George. Have you never noticed that I have a fine talent for irony? Do you think that if I were very much in love with you, I would tell you so? How conceited you must be!”

“No indeed!” George asseverated. “I would not imagine that you could do such a thing. When I told you I would go away, I was only entering into the spirit of the thing and carrying on your idea.”

“It was very well done. I cannot help laughing at the serious face you made.”

“Nor I, at yours,” said the young man beginning to pull the boat slowly about.

Matters had taken a very unexpected turn and he began to feel his determination to depart oozing out of his fingers in a way he had not expected. His position, indeed, was absurd. He could not argue with Mamie the question of whether she had been in earnest or not. Therefore he was obliged to accept her statement, that she had been jesting. And if he did so, how could he humiliate her by showing that he still believed she loved him? In other words, by packing up his traps and taking a summary leave. He would only be making a laughing-stock of himself in her eyes. Nor was he altogether free from an unforeseen sensation of disappointment, very slight, very vague, and very embarrassing to his self-esteem. Look at it as he would, his vanity had been flattered by her confession, and it had also, in some way, appealed to his heart. To be loved by some one, as she had seemed to love, when that expression had passed over her face! The idea was pleasant, attractive, one on which he would dwell hereafter and which would stimulate his comprehension when he was describing scenes of love in his books.

“So of course you will stay and behave like a human being,” said Mamie, after a short pause, as though she had summed up the evidence, deliberated upon it and were giving the verdict.

“I suppose I shall,” George answered in a regretful tone, though he could not repress a smile.

“You seem to be sorry,” observed the young girl with a quick, laughing glance of her grey eyes. “If there are any other reasons for your sudden departure, it is quite another matter. The one you gave has turned out badly. You have not proved the necessity for ensuring my salvation by taking the next train.”

“I would have gone by the boat,” said George.

“Why?”

“Because the river would have reminded me to the last of this evening.”

“Do you want to be reminded of it as much as that?” asked Mamie.

“Since it turns out to have been such a very pleasant evening, after all,” George answered, glad to escape on any terms from the position in which his last thoughtless remark had placed him.

Mamie had shown considerable tact in the way by which she had recovered herself, and George was unconsciously grateful to her for having saved him from the necessity of an abrupt leave-taking, although he could not get rid of the idea that she had been more than half in earnest in the beginning.

“It was very well done,” he said after they had landed that evening and were walking up to the house through the flower garden.

“Yes,” Mamie answered. “I am a very good actress. They always say so in the private theatricals.”

The evening colour had gone from the sky and the moon was already in the sky, not yet at the full. Mamie stood still in the path and plucked a rose.

“I can act beautifully,” she said with a low laugh. “Would you like me to give you a little exhibition? Look at me—so—now the moonlight is on my face and you can see me.”

She, looked up into his eyes, and once more her features seemed to be transfigured. She laid one hand upon his arm and with the other hand raised the rose to her lips, kissed it, her eyes still fixed on his, then smiled and spoke three words in a low voice that seemed to send a thrill through the quiet air.

“I love you.”

Then she made as though she would have fastened the flower in his white flannel jacket, and he, believing she would do it, and still looking at her, bent a little forward and held the buttonhole ready. All at once, she sprang back with a quick, graceful movement and laughed again.

“Was it not well done?” she cried, tossing the rose far away into one of the beds.

“Admirably,” George answered. “I never saw anything equal to it. How you must have studied!”

“For years,” said the young girl, speaking in her usual tone and beginning to walk by his side towards the house.

It was certainly very strange, George thought, that she should be able to assume such an expression and such a tone of voice at a moment’s notice, if there were no real love in her heart. But it was impossible to quarrel with the way she had done it. There had been something so supremely graceful in her attitude, something so winning in her smile, something in her accent which so touched the heart, that the incident remained fixed in his memory as a wonderful picture, never to be forgotten. It affected his artistic sense so strongly that before he went to bed he took his pen and wrote it down, taking a keen pleasure in putting into shape the details of the scene, and especially in describing what escaped description, the mysterious fascination of the girl herself. He read it over in bed, was satisfied with it, thrust it under his pillow, and went to sleep to dream it over again just as it had happened, with one important exception. In his dream, the figure, the voice, the words, were all Mamie’s, but the face was that of Constance Fearing, though it wore a look which he had never seen there. In the morning he laughed over the whole affair, being only too ready to believe that Mamie had really been laughing at him and that she had only been acting the little scene with the rose in the garden.

A few days later an event occurred which again made him doubtful in the matter. Since that evening he had felt that he had grown more intimate with his cousin than before. There had been no renewal of the dangerous play on her part, though both had referred to it more than once. Oddly enough it constituted a sort of harmless secret, which had to be kept from Mamie’s mother and over which they could be merry only when they were alone. Yet, as far as George was concerned, though the bond had grown closer in those days, its nature had not changed, nor was he any nearer to being persuaded that his cousin was actually in love with him.

At that time, John Bond and his wife, having made a very short trip to Canada, returned to New York and came thence to establish themselves in the old Fearing house for the rest of the summer. John could not leave the business for more than ten days in the absence of his partner, and he did as so many other men do, who spend the hot months on the river, going to town in the morning and coming back in the evening. On Sundays only John Bond did not make his daily trip to New York.

Since his marriage, he and Grace had not been over to see the Trimms, though Mrs. Trimm had once been over to them on a week-day in obedience to the custom which prescribes that every one must call on a bride. There had been much suave coldness between Totty and the Fearings since the report of the broken engagement had been circulated, but appearances were nevertheless maintained, and Mr. and Mrs. Bond felt that it was their duty to return the visit as soon as possible. Constance accompanied them and the three sailed across the river late on one Sunday afternoon. The river is a great barrier against news, and as Totty had kept her house empty of guests, for some reason best known to herself, and had written to none of her many intimate friends that George Wood was spending the summer with her, the three visitors had no expectation of finding him among the party.

During the time which had followed her departure from town, Constance Fearing had fallen into a listless habit of mind, from which she had found it hard to rouse herself even so far as to help in the preparations for her sister’s marriage. When the ceremony was over, she had withdrawn again to her country-house in the sole company of the elderly female relation who has been mentioned already once or twice in the course of this history.

She was extremely unhappy in her own way, and there were moments when the pain she had suffered renewed itself suddenly, when she wept bitter tears over the sacrifice she had been so determined to make. After one of these crises she was usually more listless and indifferent than ever, to all outward appearance, though in reality her mind was continually preying upon itself, going over the past again and again, living through the last moments of happiness she had known, and facing in imagination the struggle she had imposed upon herself. She did not grow suddenly thin, nor fall ill, nor go mad, as women do who have passed through some desperate trial of the heart. She possessed, indeed, the sort of constitution which sometimes breaks down under a violent strain from without, but she had not been exposed to anything which could bring about so fatal a result. It was rather the regret for a lost interest in her life than the keen agony of separation from one she had loved, which affected her spirits and reacted very slowly upon her health. At certain moments the sense of loneliness made itself felt more strongly than at others, and she gave way to tears and lamentation, in the privacy of her own room, without knowing exactly what she wanted. She still believed that she had done right in sending George away, but she missed what he had taken with him, the daily incense offered at her shrine, the small daily emotions she had felt when with him, and which her sensitive temper had liked for their very smallness. There was no doubt that she had loved him a little, as she had said, for she had always been ready to acknowledge everything she felt. But it was questionable whether her love had increased or decreased since she had parted from him, and her fits of spasmodic grief were probably not to be attributed to genuine love-sickness.

On that particular Sunday afternoon chosen by the Bonds for their visit to Mrs. Sherrington Trimm, Constance was as thoroughly indifferent as usual to everything that went on. She was willing to join her sister and brother-in-law in their expedition rather than stay at home and do nothing, but her mind was disturbed by no presentiment of any meeting with George Wood.

It was towards evening, and the air was already cool by comparison with the heat of the day. Mrs. Trimm, her daughter and George were all three seated in a verandah from which they overlooked the river and could see their own neat landing-pier beyond the flower-garden. The weather had been hot and none of the three were much inclined for conversation. Suddenly Totty uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“Those people are coming here! Who are they, George? Can you see?”

George fixed his eyes on the landing and saw that the sail-boat had brought to. At the same moment the sails were quickly furled and a man threw a rope over one of the wooden pillars. A few seconds elapsed and three figures were seen upon the garden-walk.

“I wish you could see who they are, George,” said Totty rather impatiently. “It is so awkward—not knowing.”

“I think it is Miss Fearing,” George answered slowly, “with her sister and John Bond.”

He was the only one of the three who did not change colour a little as the party drew near. Mamie’s marble forehead grew a shade whiter, and Totty’s pretty pink face a little more pink. She was annoyed at being taken unawares, and was sorry that George was present. As for Mamie, her grey eyes sparkled rather coldly, and her large, even lips were tightly closed over her beautiful teeth. But George was imperturbable, and it would have been impossible to guess from his face what he felt. He observed the three curiously as they approached the verandah. He thought that Constance looked pale and thin, and he recognised in Grace and her husband that peculiar appearance of expensive and untarnished newness which characterises newly-married Americans.

“I am so glad you have come over!” Totty exclaimed with laudably hospitable insincerity. “It is an age since we have seen any of you!”

Mamie gave Constance her hand and said something civil, though she fixed her grey eyes on the other’s blue ones with singular and rather disagreeable intensity.

“George has been talking to her about me, I suppose,” thought Miss Fearing as she turned and shook hands with George himself.

Grace looked at him quietly and pressed his hand with unmistakable cordiality. Her husband shook hands energetically with every one, inquired earnestly how each one was doing, and then looked at the river. He felt rather uncomfortable, because he knew that every one else did, but he made no attempt to help the difficulty by opening the conversation. He was not a talkative man. Totty, however, lost no time in asking a score of questions, to all of which she knew the answers. George found himself seated between Constance and Grace.

“Have you been here long, Mr. Wood?” Constance asked, turning her head to George and paying no attention to Totty’s volley of inquiries.

“Since the first of June,” George answered quietly, and then relapsed into silence, not knowing what to say. He was not really so calm as he appeared to be, and the suddenness of the visit had slightly confused his thoughts.

“I supposed that you were in New York,” said Constance, who seemed determined to talk to him, and to no one else. “Will you not come over and see us?” she asked.

“I shall be very happy,” George replied, without undue coldness, but without enthusiasm. “Shall you stay through the summer?”

“Certainly—my sister and John—Mr. Bond—are there, too. You see, it is so dreadfully hot in town, and he cannot leave the office, though there is nothing in the world to do, I am sure. By the way, what are you doing, if one may ask? I hope you are writing something. You know we are all looking forward to your next book.”

George could not help glancing sharply at her face, which changed colour immediately. But he looked away again as he answered the question.

“The old story,” he said. “A love story. What else should I write about? There is only one thing that has a permanent interest for the public, and that is love.” He ended the speech with a dry laugh, not good to hear.

“Is it?” asked Constance with remarkable self-possession. “I should think there must be many other subjects more interesting and far easier to write upon.”

“Easier, no doubt. I will not question your judgment upon that point, at least. More interesting to certain writers, too, perhaps. Love is so much a matter of taste. But more to the liking of the public—no. There I must differ from you. The great majority of mankind love, are fully aware of it, and enjoy reading about the loves of others.”

Constance was pale and evidently nervous. She had clearly determined to talk to George, and he appeared to resent the advance rather than otherwise. Yet she would not relinquish the attempt. Even in his worst humour she would rather talk with him than with any one else. She tried to meet him on his own ground.

“How about friendship?” she asked. “Is not that a subject for a book, as well as love?”

“Possibly, with immense labour, one might make a book of some sort about friendship. It would be a very dull book to read, and a man would need to be very morbid to write it; as for the public it would have to undergo a surgical operation to be made to accept it. No. I think that friendship would make a very poor subject for a novelist.”

“You do not think very highly of friendship itself, it seems,” said Constance with an attempt to laugh.

“I do not know of any reason why I should. I know very little in its favour.”

“Opinions differ so much!” exclaimed the young girl, gaining courage gradually. “I suppose you and I have not at all the same ideas about it.”

“Evidently not.”

“How would you define friendship?”

“I never define things. It is my business to describe people, facts and events. Bond is a lawyer and a man of concise definitions. Ask him.”

“I prefer to talk to you,” said Constance, who had by this time overcome her sensitive timidity and began to think that she could revive something of the old confidence in conversation. Unfortunately for her intentions, Mamie had either overheard the last words, or did not like the way things were going. She rose and pushed her light straw chair before her with her foot until it was opposite the two.

“What do you do with yourself all day long?” she asked as she sat down. “I am sure you are giving my cousin the most delightful accounts of your existence!”

“As a matter of fact, we were talking of friendship,” said George, watching the outlines of Mamie’s exquisite figure and mentally comparing them with Constance’s less striking advantages.

“How charming!” Mamie exclaimed sweetly. “And you have always been such good friends.”

With a wicked intuition of the mischief she was making, Mamie paused and looked from the one to the other. Constance very nearly lost her temper, but George’s dark face betrayed no emotion.

“The best of friends,” he said calmly. “What do you think of this question, Mamie? Miss Fearing says she thinks that a good book might be written about friendship. I answered that I thought it would be far from popular with the public. What do you say?”

Constance looked curiously at Mamie, as though she were interested in her reply. It seemed as though she must agree with one or the other. But Mamie was not easily caught.

“Oh, I am sure you could, George!” she exclaimed. “You are so clever—you could do anything. For instance, why do you not describe your friendship? You two, you know you would be so nice in a book. And besides, everybody would read it and it could not be a failure.” Mamie smiled again, as she looked at her two hearers.

“I should think Mr. Wood might do something in a novel with you as well as with me,” said Constance.

George was not sure whether Mamie turned a shade whiter or not. She was naturally pale, but it seemed to him that her grey eyes grew suddenly dark and angry.

“You might put us both into the same book, George,” she suggested.

“Both as friends?” asked Constance, raising her delicate eyebrows a little, while her nostrils expanded. She was thoroughly angry by this time.

“Why, of course!” Mamie exclaimed with an air of perfect innocence. “What could you suppose I meant? I do not suppose he would be rude enough to fall in love with either of us in a book. Would you, George?”

“In books,” said George quietly, “all sorts of strange things happen.”

Thereupon he turned and addressed Grace, who was on the other side of him, and kept up an animated conversation with her throughout the remainder of the visit. It seemed to him to be the only way of breaking up an extremely unpleasant situation. Constance was grateful to him for what he did, for she felt that if he had chosen to forget his courtesy even for an instant he would have found it easy to say many things which would have wounded her cruelly and which would not have failed to please his cousin. George, on his part, had acquired a clearer view of the real state of things.

“How I hate her!” Mamie said to herself, when Constance was gone.

“What a hateful, spiteful little thing she is!” thought Constance as she stepped into the boat.