When Eric came back to the hall, he was startled to find O’Rane still sitting there.

“I’d entirely forgotten about you,” he exclaimed. “Have I been a frightful time? You must forgive me. I’m becoming appallingly absent-minded.”

“You haven’t been very long,” answered O’Rane; then he added inconsequently, “I was beginning to fear she might not be so well.”

“A bit unstrung. I just want to scribble a note to Gaisford; then I shall be ready for dinner.”

He hurried into the library, tripped over an unseen obstacle and had almost overbalanced before he discovered that the lights were not turned on.

“I have told Ivy that you say I shall never be well enough to marry,” he wrote. “This may surprise you, but you must back me up. I’m going away as soon as I can get packed and tidied up; I shall be away for at least your two years. I want you to tell people that it’s not serious, but I also want you to convince Ivy that it’s all over. I’ll give you the whole story if you want it; perhaps it’s enough for the present to say that I want above all things to give her a free hand. After all, if she’s still unmarried in two years’ time and if I’m a whole man by then, we can revise our decision. She’s too young to be tied for two years. You might burn this letter and keep the contents to yourself.”

Ivy had been crying as though her heart would break; and Eric had only left her room because his presence seemed to excite her to fresh outbursts, and she was reacting on him. While he wrote his letter, the long-drawn breathless sobs seemed to fill the library—as they had filled it once before on the night when he debated with Gaisford whether he should come to her rescue—; it was imagination, of course, but he wanted to get away as soon as possible, as far as possible. And assuredly there must be no question of seeing her again....

He walked to the door and clutched at the handle as he listened. The sobbing continued, and he wondered how long he would have to hear it. It was almost too clear to be imaginary; O’Rane must be hearing it, too... So might a man go on hearing that one accusing sound until he went mad. He filled his lungs and walked erect into the hall.

“I’m ready now,” he said.

O’Rane felt for his hat and stood up.

“You think it’s all right to leave her?” he asked.

“Why not? The nurse is somewhere about.”

“She seems—rather upset.”

The crying was real, then, and some one else could hear it. O’Rane spoke caustically, as though he were responsible....

“I’m afraid I shall only make her worse... Shall we start? I’ll give you a hand, if I may; the stairs are rather tricky. Are we going to your place, or will you come with me to the club? I don’t want to meet a lot of people. You said we should be by ourselves?”

One jerky question tumbled on to the heels of another. It was idle for Eric to pretend that nothing had happened; it was impossible to remain silent.

“It’ll be only the two of us,” said O’Rane.

“Let’s find a taxi.”

They had driven half-way to O’Rane’s house in Westminster, when Eric leaned through the window without warning and countermanded the order.

“The club will be better,” he explained. “We may meet my agent, Grierson, and I want to have a word with him. You don’t mind?”

“Not a bit... I think I’d better take charge, Eric. First of all, have a cigarette. I don’t carry them myself, I’m afraid. Then don’t try to talk, if you don’t feel like it; and don’t try to keep up appearances on my account. I’m blind, to begin with; and I know what you’re going through. Give me your hand. That’s right... Sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you; I suppose I’ve rather a powerful grip. Now, you’ve to make the hell of a big effort—”

“I’ve made it,” Eric interrupted unsteadily.

“You’re only at the beginning. I take it you gave her free choice?”

“No, I decided for her. I had a moment of revelation and I jumped at the opportunity. I knew that, if I didn’t take it then, I should go on struggling until I could never take it. I cut my own throat. I lied to her and said that I’d been forbidden even to think of marrying—ever. That letter was to square Gaisford. She’s upset—on my account; but she’ll forget it the first time she sees Gaymer. That brute... And a month ago she was begging me to marry her without waiting, because she was so sure of herself. I’ve taken your advice, Raney, with—interest. I’ve handed her over without a fight. It’s been a—most valuable experience,—something to think about when I’m abroad. I feel there’s a tremendous joke somewhere, only I can’t see it. Shall we telephone to Gaymer and see if he can help us? And she’s crying because I’ve been so good to her, she can’t bear to think I’m ill, I must know she’ll wait till I’m well... You can see the fun of it, can’t you, Raney? The rollicking farce? If I died, she’d die too; a perfect sentiment. We’re just by Buckingham Palace now. I was taking her home from the opera, and Gaymer passed us in a car—on this spot—with another woman. Gaymer, who’s going to make her happy! And she went and bearded him in his own rooms; and he turned her out!... Just on this spot... That was the beginning of everything. She’ll tell you that, when she got home that night, she prayed that she might die....”

The taxi swerved to the kerb and stopped with a jerk. O’Rane relaxed his grip on Eric’s hand and opened the door to let out the dog.

“A big effort!,” he whispered.

The lights of the hall and the hum of conversation in the dining-room steadied Eric, and he discussed the bill of fare with a show of interest, even stirring himself to nod or wave a hand to his friends, as they threaded their way among the tables. Once he remembered that he had done all this before, two nights ere he said good-bye to Barbara Neave and to England. It would have been better, if he had never come back; he never meant to come back, but he had been summoned. It was not his fault; looking back on the past two months, could any one say that he was to blame for anything? Was he to blame for sacrificing himself now? Did it matter what any one did, so long as Providence punished folly and wisdom equally? That was where God came in. Perhaps that was the secret of this incomparable joke which he felt without understanding....

“I know now why Adam and Eve were turned out of the Garden of Eden!,” he exclaimed suddenly.

O’Rane looked up in surprise.

“Is this a new riddle?,” he asked.

“It’s the oldest riddle in the world. They knew the difference between good and evil; God never did. I sometimes wonder why any of us try to lead a decent life or to do the right thing. It doesn’t pay in this world, and I’m sure God only despises you in the next... You’d like a glass of sherry, wouldn’t you?,” he added, as their waiter came within ear-shot.

“I hardly ever touch wine, thanks...” O’Rane listened for a moment to the departing footsteps, then lowered his voice. “If you feel like that, Eric, you’ve only to go back and say that you want to be married at once. She’ll do it. If you told her you were going straight to a sanatorium—for the rest of your life—, you’ve only to ask her and she’ll go with you. If you play that card, no one in the world can beat you. And you know it.”

There was a long silence only broken by the drumming of nervous fingers on the table.

“Yes. I know it,” Eric answered.

“Why don’t you play it?”

“Perhaps I don’t much care about the idea of bringing consumptive children into the world.”

“She’ll wait till you’re cured... Don’t be a humbug, Eric. You’re going to spoil everything, if you become bitter. Cynicism is a young man’s substitute for knowledge. We’re not boys. We can see this dispassionately; you’ve done the right thing, the only possible thing, the inevitable thing. It hurts, but I can shew you a way of making it hurt less. At present you’re seeing nothing but blackness ahead, but, if you’ll come for a walk with me after dinner, I’ll put something in place of all you think you’re losing.”

“I shall be interested to see you try.”

“My dear Eric, I shall succeed! I’ve never doubted in all my life. Will you put yourself in my hands? We won’t discuss it now, because I want to hear about your immediate plans. You’ll be away for two years? Have you decided when you start and where you’re going?”

Eric had thought only that he was losing this girl whom he had so unnecessarily allowed himself to love. He did not want to talk about the islands of the South Pacific, but O’Rane would not leave him alone. It was unseemly and brutal, this torrent of questions from a man who was in no way concerned. O’Rane knew some one who would be only too pleased to take over the lease of the Ryder Street flat; he knew some one else who might usefully be employed to spread the news of his departure through the Press; he knew men at every stopping-place between Liverpool and the Marquesas, between Southampton and the Cape, and letters of introduction were to be had for the asking.

“You’re giving me a wonderful funeral,” said Eric.

The words were rudely conceived and rudely spoken. It was a refinement of cruelty to be whipped with questions, when his brain was too much numbed to think of anything but Ivy.

“Hardly a funeral. But you’ve closed one chapter, and I want you to begin the next. It doesn’t do any good to curse your luck. When I had this accident to my eyes, I walked straight out of hospital into my next job. Kind friends wanted to drive me in cars or to take my arm, but I had to start on my own some time. There’s such a lot to be done in life that we’ve no leisure for thinking what fun it would be to have three hands or a million pounds a minute. When King David was punished in the person of his son, he did everything in his power to keep the boy alive; when once the boy was dead, he rose up and washed his face and put off all the signs of mourning and started on his next job. If you don’t begin to-night, it’ll be harder to begin to-morrow.”

“But there’s not very much I can do to-night,” Eric objected wearily.

“I assure you there is. Did you find out whether your agent was in the club? Well, get hold of him and make your arrangements. I can’t help there, because I know nothing about the subject, but you and he must know what you fixed when you went abroad before. In the meantime I’ll get hold of my tame journalist. I’m going to say simply that you’re going abroad immediately for the good of your health; I shan’t say where or how long for. And the news won’t appear till the day after to-morrow, so you’ll have time to warn your people. Then we’ll meet—is half an hour long enough for you?—, and I shall have a lot for you to do. I’m going to find out if Gaymer’s at home—”

“I’m not going to see him!” Eric broke in.

O’Rane looked up, with his head on one side, smiling to himself:

“If I convince you that you can contribute in any way to that girl’s happiness? Dear man, don’t be absurd! I’m assuming that you love her. That means that you’ll do everything you can for her and that you’ll rack your brains to think of new things. D’you imagine that you’ve done your utmost for her by clearing out of Gaymer’s way—with the worst possible grace—and wishing them both joy of the other? You’re going to help this thing through. You’re going to set her mind at rest, you’re going to shake hands with him, you’re going to be the man they can both turn to... This has to be done with a bit of a gesture, Eric.”

Forty minutes later they were walking towards Buckingham Gate. Eric did not know what he was expected to say or do, but O’Rane assured him that everything would be quite easy, and he was too tired to assert himself. He hoped faintly that Gaymer would be sober and that they would have no duel of words as on the occasion of his two other visits to the flat. Perhaps O’Rane would keep the peace....

Gaymer opened the door himself, nodded perfunctorily to Eric and led the way to his smoking-room. He could not wholly conceal his surprise at their coming; and he busied himself unduly with chairs, cigars and offers of drink until one of his visitors should think fit to explain the purpose of the meeting. Each waited for his neighbour to speak first; the last tumbler and cigar were distributed, and there was no pretext for further delay. When the silence became unbearable, O’Rane turned enquiringly to Eric.

“You were going to make a proposal?,” he began.

“No. I came here, because you asked me to. I don’t in the least know what you want me to say.”

“I wanted you to explain; Gaymer’s in the dark still. Shall I give him an outline?... Gaymer, you both of you love Miss Maitland, but you can’t both of you marry her. I don’t think we need consider rights or claims, because—quite obviously—neither of you would marry her against her will—”

“I have every intention of marrying her,” Gaymer interrupted quietly.

“Not against her will. Lane or I have only to say a word to her, and she’d marry him. I’m not bluffing, Gaymer; that’s quite certain. Lane doesn’t want to force her hand, he wants her to marry the man who’ll make her happiest. Don’t you want the same? This is the judgement of Solomon, you know. Do you put yourself before her? If you do, you don’t care for her, you don’t deserve her; and, Gaymer, you won’t get her.”

Gaymer kicked his heels on to the edge of a chair and slid lower into his corner of the sofa:

“If she tries to marry Lane or any one else, I can have her back—in the heel of my fist—within a week.”

“I can’t agree,” said O’Rane. “There are certain new factors of which you know nothing. But, if it were all true, would you try to marry her against her will?”

“No—”

“Come! That’s better.”

“But it’s not against her will. She knows that. Simply looking at her happiness—”

“You won’t make her very happy in your present state, Gaymer,” said O’Rane sharply. “It’s more than time for you to steady down and find some work to do.”

“That’s my business,” murmured Gaymer unamiably.

“No, it’s ours, if you want our help. Lane has seen her this evening; he’s come to the conclusion that she wants to marry you rather than him. He’s given way in your favour. It’s not an easy thing to do, it’s not an easy position for her; she’s torn in two and very unhappy. Lane’s going abroad—for his health. He’s leaving her on such terms that she can do what she likes without having any cause to reproach herself; she can marry you with a good conscience. And you’ve to shew that you’re worthy of what’s being done for you; she’s being made over to your care. How long will it take you to find some work?”

Gaymer looked uncomprehendingly from one to the other.

“I don’t know,” he answered stupidly.

O’Rane turned to Eric.

“Have you any money?,” he asked.

“How much do you want?,” said Eric.

“Well, how much can you spare? You want to make a success of this, don’t you? If there’s a question of their wanting money to marry on, capital to start in business, you know, you could supply it? You must have made a great deal the last few years; and you wouldn’t like Miss Maitland to go short. Can I leave the question in your hands?”

Eric felt an insane impulse to laugh, but O’Rane’s face was serious.

“I hardly feel—,” he began.

“But you’re going to do everything in your power to make it a success! They must have money, and I understand the judge is rather a screw. By the way, we shall have to put some pressure on him. He’s got a great opinion of you, Eric. I met him at dinner the other night, and he was talking very warmly about you. You will have to do some propaganda for Gaymer. And then we must find regular work... Can you manage five hundred a year for a few years?”

As Eric hesitated in bewilderment, Gaymer intervened.

“We needn’t discuss this,” he said.

“If you don’t take it, I’ll see that your wife does,” said O’Rane. “You could manage that, Eric?”

“I could.”

“Then you will?”

Eric felt himself being hypnotized. A voice that was not under his control answered:

“I will.”

O’Rane stood up and called his dog.

“Lane has to go abroad for his lungs,” he explained. “He’ll be all right in a year or two’s time, but he’s told Miss Maitland that he’ll never be in a condition to marry; you must back up the story. Now that’s pretty well all. Lane will be busy the next few days, so you’d better not go near his place. After that, I understand that Miss Maitland will have to go away to the country for a bit. When she comes back, you can see her. If she shews any hesitation, you can tell her that Lane himself provided the money for you to marry her on. That’ll fix that... Now we must be going.”

He walked to the door and felt for the handle. Eric rose wearily and followed him, hardly troubling to wonder where he was being taken. Gaymer sat biting his nails and staring at the floor.

“Good-bye,” O’Rane called from the door.

There was an inarticulate grunt from the sofa. Eric was half-way across the room, but he hesitated and came back to Gaymer.

“I don’t suppose I shall see you again,” he said. “Good-bye. Good luck.”

O’Rane was humming to himself in the hall. Gaymer looked towards the door; then his eyes swept slowly round on a level with Eric’s waist; they raised themselves diffidently, and he saw a hand stretched out to him.

“Good-bye, Lane,” he said.

“Will you shake hands?”

“Why? We’re not friends. And you’ve not given me anything.”

The humming ceased, and O’Rane called out to know whether Eric was coming.

“I’m too tired to wrangle,” sighed Eric. “Don’t shake hands, if you don’t want to. Good-bye again.”

“Good-bye.”

Eric’s hand fell to his side, and he walked slowly to the door and across the hall.

“What d’you want me to do now?,” he asked dully.

“I’ll take you home,” answered O’Rane. “I’m afraid Gaymer hasn’t learned the art of being gracious; and he’ll be punished for it. I’m prepared to bet he’s being punished now. Whenever he looks at his wife, he’ll remember that you behaved well and he didn’t. He’ll try to forget it; but she won’t let him, she’ll always know that, when you found you couldn’t marry her yourself, you strained every nerve to get her happily married to the man she loved better than you. If anything makes Gaymer run straight, it’ll be that reflection. You’ve behaved uncommonly well, Eric, if I may say so, though not better than she deserved; you’re giving up everything to her, but she was ready to give up everything to you. I’ve not finished with you yet; you’ve still to give your blessing to the marriage. Tell her quite simply that, as you can’t marry her yourself—Yes, you must do that... And that’s all you can do. If they’re coming to grief, you can’t stop them; you’ve already done what only one man in ten million would do. In future—you’re funking the future, aren’t you?”

“It seems a little—purposeless,” said Eric.

He wondered whether his voice trembled as much as his lips.

“One gets moments like that. It’s all due to our literary conception of beginnings and ends. How long have we known each other? Fifteen years? D’you remember your last Phoenix Club dinner with Sinclair as president? Jim Loring was there; and George Oakleigh; and Jack Waring. In those days I’d made up my mind to a great career; I was going to make pots of money and I was going to be the great democratic leader... Then the war came, just when I’d made the money and lost it; one was incapacitated to a certain extent... But, even when I was lying in hospital, I never said ‘This is the end’... You’re a bit incapacitated, but this isn’t the end; you’ve just been pulled up by a big obstacle and you’ve overdone it. I said I’d give you something in place of all you were losing. Well, haven’t I? You could have kept that girl, but you’ve done everything—at the heaviest possible cost—to serve her interests. You’ve that to be proud of. What are the things one has to overcome before one can attain greatness of spirit? Greed, fear, selfishness? You’ve done that. Weakness?... I keep on thinking of Sinclair’s dinner-party. You know that my wife was engaged to Jim Loring before she married me; and you and Jack Waring were both in love with Barbara Neave before she married George. ’Curious what havoc one or two women can make in half a dozen men’s lives! It came near to beating Jim; I believe it did beat Waring. But are you going to be beaten and to let your life be spoiled for a woman? You’re bigger than either of those two; you’ve had ill-health to contend with all your life and you’ve made a world-wide reputation for yourself in spite of it. And in those days Woman for us was a girl of eighteen that we flirted with on the stairs at a dance... We underestimate them at first, then we exaggerate them enormously, then we get them into perspective; but Woman is not a man’s chief business in his prime. Did you plan a wonderful career for yourself at that dinner? I told you even then that you were the genius among us all.”

Eric looked back with a shudder over the devastation of fifteen years to his last night as an undergraduate at Oxford.

“I suppose I did... Yes, it was a solemn moment, just when we were going down. I dreamed that one day I should have the whole world at my feet. People would whisper who I was when I came into a room... I suppose I’ve got that. But it’s so small. I’m genuinely surprised when I find that any one’s heard of me. I’m terrified when people come up and congratulate me on my plays... If that’s fame... I think it was when I found how unsatisfying it was that I began to yearn for something more... You haven’t told me how I’m going to keep myself amused for the next two years, Raney. I shall be allowed to do very little work.”

“You won’t be amused. But you may be consoled to think that your soul’s been in danger and that you’ve saved it by sacrifice. It was touch-and-go whether you spoiled that girl’s life.”

“And I’ve given her life to Gaymer to spoil.”

“If he must. But you’ve set him an example that he won’t easily forget. I still believe in sudden conversions; and I expect to find him a different man from to-night. You must give time for the lesson to sink in; he’s dazed at present—like you.”

Loathing of Gaymer was a feeling which Eric could not yet repress; he brought his stick with a crash on to the pavement.

“Not he! You talked about a ‘gesture,’ and he knows it’s that and nothing more. I’ve given her up because I couldn’t keep her... I don’t complain. She had her choice of us, and the better man won.”

“It was the better man who made the gesture,” said O’Rane quietly. “Is this the house? I don’t think I can do any good by coming in. Make her see that you’re still her devoted friend and that love has no necessary connection with marriage. You told me you were going to your people to-morrow? You’ll find that devilish hard, but you mustn’t stand any sympathy from them, or you’ll begin to pity yourself. Come and see me, as soon as you’re back in London. I’ll organize a farewell dinner for you. A bit ironical after your send-off in New York? I thought I’d discount it by saying it first... Remember you have to go through this with your head up. Good-night.”

He held out his hand, and Eric gripped it.

“Good-night and thank you. Can you get home all right?”

“I’m not going home. I’m going to do some propaganda with this girl’s father.”

O’Rane turned with a wave of his hand, slipped his fingers through the dog’s collar and strode towards St. James’ Street. Eric watched him melting from sight and then walked upstairs. He tried to make a picturesque comparison between his own disappearance into the solitude of California and O’Rane’s eternal solitude of blindness; he wondered why any one troubled to advise and guide him, why he so tamely submitted. What was the sum of all this counsel?... He was inexpressibly tired. And it was ironical that he should be spending another night so close to Ivy when he had renounced her.

The light was burning in her room, and after some hesitation he put his head in at the door. She seemed to be sleeping, but awoke as he looked at her and cried out to know where he had been.

“I was dining with O’Rane,” he said. “I went away, Ivy, because I couldn’t bear to see you crying. And I was a bit unnerved myself. It’s done me good, talking to him. He’s so extraordinarily plucky himself and he’s never in any kind of doubt. He’s cleared my mind of doubt. If I could marry you without doing you a wrong, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to bring it about. You know that, don’t you? I love you more than any one in the world, you’ll always be my own child, and nothing can take away my right to love you and try to protect you. But we can’t marry; so we mustn’t upset each other by thinking about it. I’m going away to try and get cured, and you must get well yourself and make your own life just as though we’d never thought of marrying. You remember that I made a will some weeks ago? I’m arranging for certain money to be paid you—”

“Eric!”

“Yes. That’ll make you independent. I want to see you happily married. You told me that, if I were dead or if we’d never met, you’d probably marry John Gaymer. I want you to pretend that we’ve never met. I hate to think of giving any one else the right to take care of you, but I can’t do it from the other side of the Atlantic... You’ve been a wonderful thing in my life, a little fairy that walked in out of the street... I shall expect to hear everything that you do and how you’re getting on. I’m going to get quite well, but a man with weak lungs has no business to marry. And that’s the long and the short of it. I’m going down to-morrow to tell my people... If ever you need help, Ivy, you can call on me; I’ll come back from California, if I can do anything for you. Now I mustn’t keep you awake, or I shall get into trouble with Gaisford. Promise me you won’t worry. Promise me you won’t make yourself miserable... Darling Ivy, you mustn’t cry again; I’m losing more than you are. Don’t try to talk. Just kiss me good-night. May God bless you, Ivy, and make you very happy.”

As he untwined her arms and turned out the light, he could hear the sobs breaking out afresh. They followed him across the hall into his bedroom. Nearly three years earlier, when he had said good-bye to Barbara, he had returned home to find the telephone ringing in every room and he had muffled the bells and thrown himself half-undressed on his bed, blind and mad with pain. For two years he had wondered what would have happened, if he had yielded to temptation and spoken to her....

The sobbing of a heart-broken child pursued him, though he shut his door and buried his head in the pillows. O’Rane was convinced that he had only to make his appeal, to trade on his own health and beg her to come with him....

If she dreaded the appeal, why did she go on crying?

He tried to think of next day’s meeting with his mother. “No danger... I assure you there’s nothing to worry about! Ask Gaisford, if you don’t believe me...” And then, as in a careless postscript: “Of course, there can be no question of marrying. Just as well we found out in time, wasn’t it?” Would his mother be deceived? He would have to tell her in that quiet, confidential hour when his father had gone to bed; he would surely tell her in his father’s drowsy, smoke-laden work-room where he had already boasted—prematurely enough to set God scheming against him—that he would make an effort to win, that he would win, that he had won....

If indeed he had won, it was a secret victory; and Raney alone knew whom he had met and overcome....

The sobbing still haunted him. If Ivy dreaded the appeal, how could she go on crying?

He threw aside the pillows and walked uncertainly to the door. His fingers went to the handle and drew back without touching it, went forward again, tried and turned. The door opened, and he could hear muffled sobbing, no longer imaginary. He walked on tip-toe half-way across the hall, then returned and stood listening in the open door-way. Then he closed the door and locked it.

The sobbing grew fainter and died away.