And as the end of June drew nearer, Antony found himself once more contemplating a possible meeting with the Duchessa, contemplating, also, the worst that meeting might hold in store.

An odd, indefinable restlessness was upon him. He told himself quite plainly that, in all probability before many weeks, many days even, were passed, there would be a severance of that friendship which meant so much to him. He forced himself to realize it, to dwell upon it, to bring consciously home to his soul the blankness the severance would bring with it. There was a certain relief in facing the worst; yet he could not always face it. There was the trouble. Now and then a hope, which he told himself was futile, would spring unbidden to his heart, establish itself as a radiant guest. Yet presently it would depart, mocking him; or fade into nothingness leaving a blank greyness in its stead.

Uncertainty—though reason told him none was existent—tantalized, tormented him. And then, when certainty came nearest home to him, he knew he had still to learn the final and definite manner of its coming. That it must inevitably be preceded by moments of soul torture he was aware. Yet what precise form would that soul torture take?

He put the query aside. He dared not face it. Once, lying wide-eyed in the darkness, gazing through the small square of his window at the star-powdered sky without, an odd smile had twisted his lips. Pain, bodily pain, had at one time been his close companion for weeks, he had then fancied he had known once and for all the worst of her torments. He knew now that her dealings with the body are quite extraordinarily light in comparison to her dealings with the mind. And this was only anticipation.

One Saturday afternoon he started off for a walk on a hitherto untried route. It was in a direction entirely opposite to Woodleigh, which he now wished to avoid.

Half an hour’s walking brought him to a wide expanse of moorland, as lonely a spot as can well be imagined. Behind him lay Byestry and the sea; to his left, also, lay the sea, since the coast took a deep turn northwards about three miles or so to the west of Byestry; to the right, and far distant, lay Woodleigh. Before him was the moorland, covered with heather and gorse bushes. About half a mile distant it descended in a gentle decline, possibly to some hidden village below, since a broadish grass path, or species of roadway bearing wheel tracts, showed that, despite its present loneliness, it was at times traversed by human beings.

Antony sat down by a gorse bush, whose golden flowers were scenting the air with a sweet aromatic scent. Mingling with their scent was the scent of thyme and heather, and the hot scent of the sunbaked earth. Bees boomed lazily in the still air, and far off was the faint melodious note of the ever-moving sea. The sun was hot and the droning of the bees drowsy in its insistence. After a few moments Antony stretched himself comfortably on the heather, and slept.

A slight sound roused him, and he sat up, for the first moment barely realizing his whereabouts. Then he saw the source of the sound which had awakened him. Coming along the grass path, and not fifty paces from him, was a small pony and trap, driven by a woman. Antony looked towards it, and, as he looked, he felt his heart jump, leap, and set off pounding at a terrible rate.

In two minutes the trap was abreast him, and the little Dartmoor pony was brought to a sudden standstill. Antony had got to his feet.

“Mr. Gray,” exclaimed an astonished voice, though very assuredly there was a note of keen delight mingled with the astonishment.

Antony pulled off his cap.

“Fancy meeting you here!” cried the Duchessa di Donatello. “Why ever didn’t you let me know that you were in these parts? Or, perhaps you have only just arrived, and were going to come and see me?”

There was the fraction of a pause. Then,

“I’ve been at Byestry since the beginning of May,” said Antony.

“At Byestry,” exclaimed the Duchessa. “But why ever didn’t you tell me when you wrote, instead of saying it was impossible to come and see me?”

“I didn’t know then that Woodleigh and Byestry lay so near together,” said Antony. And then he stopped. What on earth was he to say next?

The Duchessa looked at him. There was an oddness in his manner she could not understand. He seemed entirely different from the man she had known on the Fort Salisbury. Yet—well, perhaps it was only fancy.

“You know now, anyhow,” she responded gaily. “And you must come and see me.” Then her glance fell upon his clothes. Involuntarily a little puzzlement crept into her eyes, a little amazed query.

“What are you doing at Byestry?” she asked. The question had come. Antony’s hand clenched on the side of the pony-trap.

“Oh, I’m one of the under-gardeners at Chorley Old Hall,” he responded cheerfully, and as if it were the most entirely natural thing in the world, though his heart was as heavy as lead.

“What do you mean?” queried the Duchessa bewildered.

“Just that,” said Antony, still cheerfully, “under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall.”

“But why?” demanded the Duchessa, the tiniest frown between her eyebrows.

“Because it is my work,” said Antony briefly.

There was a moment’s silence.

“But I don’t quite understand,” said the Duchessa slowly. “You—you aren’t a labourer.”

Antony drew a deep breath.

“That happens to be exactly what I am,” he responded.

“What do you mean, Mr. Gray?” There was bewilderment in the words.

“Exactly what I have said,” returned Antony almost stubbornly. “I am under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall, or, in other words, a labourer. I get a pound a week wage, and a furnished cottage, for which I pay five shillings a week rent. My name, by the way, is Michael Field.”

The Duchessa looked straight at him.

“Then on the ship you pretended to be someone you were not?” she asked slowly.

Antony shrugged his shoulders.

“That was the reason you wrote and said you couldn’t see me?”

Again Antony shrugged his shoulders.

The Duchessa’s face was white.

“Why did you pretend to be other than you were?” she demanded.

Antony was silent.

“I suppose,” she said slowly, “that, for all your talk of friendship, you did not trust me sufficiently. You did not trust my friendship had I known, and therefore you deliberately deceived me all the time.”

Still Antony was silent.

“You really meant to deceive me?” There was an odd note of appeal in her voice.

“If you like to call it that,” replied Antony steadily.

“What else can I call it?” she flashed.

There was a long silence.

“I should be grateful if you would not mention having known me as Antony Gray,” said Antony suddenly.

“I certainly do not intend to refer to that unfortunate episode again,” she replied icily. “As far as I am concerned it will be blotted from my memory as completely as I can wipe out so disagreeable an incident. Will you, please, take your hand off my trap.”

Antony withdrew his hand as if the trap had stung him.

The Duchessa touched the pony with her whip, Antony stood looking after them. When, once more, the moorland was deserted, he sat down again on the heather.

Josephus, returning from a rabbit hunt more than an hour later, found him still there in the same position. Disturbed by something queer in his deity’s mood, he thrust a wet black nose into his hand.

The touch roused Antony. He looked up, half dazed. Then he saw Josephus.

“I’ve done it now, old man,” he said. And there was a queer little catch in his voice.