BERTHA decided it was better to curtail Nigel’s visits and make them fewer gradually; she had quite convinced Percy of her sincerity, and he also had come to the conclusion that it would be foolish and infra dig to let the jealousy be suspected. He trusted her again now; and they were both deeply and intensely happy. Being ashamed of the letters, Percy said nothing about them; in a day or two he had come to the conclusion that he would leave it entirely to Bertha’s tact.

“All I ask is,” he said, “that you will see him as little and as seldom as you can, without making too much fuss about it, or letting him know what I thought.”

“And I promise to do that,” she said. “I long never to see him again. It’s only on account of Madeline I wanted to have one more little talk with him—about her and Rupert. After that I’ll manage without him, I assure you. I swear not to give him anything more to do for me. But what I can’t understand, dear, is what put the idea into your head.”

“Never mind. You were seeing him too often. And, remember, I know that he was in love with you once and wanted to marry you.”

“But, dear boy, that was ten years ago, and he married somebody else.”

“Which he may regret by now. Well, I trust all to your tact, Bertha.”

“He’s coming to-day,” Bertha said. “And then I’m going to make him understand I no longer want his help.”

“Right.”

Percy went out, looking very happy. He did not forget to kiss her now, and he himself had sent the large basket of flowers that Nigel nearly fell over when he came in the afternoon.

“A new admirer?” asked Nigel.

“No, an old one. So you say that you met Rupert buying a hat for Miss Chivvey, and saw them the next day walking together, and she was wearing it.”

“Yes. And, as I told you, I thought this rather serious, so I wrote and invited the young lady to lunch with me.”

“Did she accept?”“That is what I’ve come to tell you about to-day. She was engaged, but asked me to invite her another time.”

“Exactly. Now, Nigel, I want to tell you something. I think I’ve been doing wrong intriguing for Madeline, and it hasn’t been fair to her really. I’ve decided to tell her what you told me about Rupert, and then leave things to take their course. And I oughtn’t to countenance asking the other girl to lunch. It was horrid of me—I’m ashamed of myself, both on account of her and of Mary. Don’t do it; I’d rather not.”

Nigel looked up at her sharply.

“Do these sudden and violent scruples mean simply that you don’t want me any more?”

“A little,” she replied.

“I’ve noticed you’ve seemed very cold and unkind to me the last week or so,” he said. “You seem to be trying to change our relations.”

“I don’t see why we should have any relations,” answered Bertha. “After all, I know instinctively that Mary doesn’t like me.”

“What in heaven’s name does that matter?” he asked.

“A good deal to me.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Nigel looked surprised and more hurt than she would have expected. Then he said:“All right, Bertha. I hope I can take a hint. I won’t bother you any more. I won’t try to help you in anything till you ask me.”

She was silent.

Then he went on:

“Might I venture to ask whether you suspect I’ve been making the most of our plans for Madeline to see as much of you as I could?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that.”

“If you had, perhaps you would have been right,” he said, but seeing her annoyed expression he changed his tone, and said:

“No, my dear, truly I only wanted to do a good turn for you and your friend. It’s off now, that’s all. I sha’n’t interfere again.”

He stood up.

She hesitated for one moment.

“Do you think Rupert has not been sincere with Madeline?”

“I can’t say. I wouldn’t go so far as that. I think he varies—likes the contrast between the two. But if he decides to marry, I don’t think he’d propose to Miss Chivvey. Well, good-bye. I won’t call again till you ask me.”

Her look of obvious relief as she smilingly held out her hand piqued him into saying:

“I see you want your time to yourself more. Before I go, will you answer me one little question?”“Of course I will.”

He still held her hand. She took it away.

“What is the question?”

“Who sent you those flowers, Bertha?”

“Have you any right to ask?”

“I think so—as an old friend. They’re compromisingly large, and there’s a strange mixture of orchids and forget-me-nots, roses and gardenias that I don’t quite like. It looks like somebody almost wildly lavish—not anxious to show off his taste, but sincerely throwing his whole soul into the basket.”

She laughed, pleased.

“Who sent you the flowers, Bertha?”

He was standing up by the door.

“Percy,” she answered.

“Oh!”