During their passage to England, John and Hugh heard many golden legends of the East, but, apart from these, they had a reason of their own for looking eagerly towards the future. Mr. Alter had said that Mrs. Fane-Herbert and Margaret were going to China. This news, which, while he himself expected to remain west of the Straits, had promised Hugh nothing but that he would spend in strangers’ houses what little leave he might obtain, now made his good fortune seem more fortunate. It meant that his own people would be often accessible to him. And into John’s imaginings of the East Margaret persistently entered. Though his acquaintance with her was so short, he never thought of her as of a stranger. The very brevity of their contact made vivid his memory of her. Her personality appeared to him as a thing apart, strangely complete, and significant on account of its completeness and its independence of the rest of his life. The impression she had made upon him was an impression of contrast. His own existence was set about with a wall of steel. A door had opened for a moment, and he had seen her. When the door was closed, still he saw her, an occupant of another world, the citizenship of which was denied him. For all the interdicts he had laid upon himself in his attempt to settle down where Fate had cast him, he made from time to time dream-sorties into that other world, and on these occasions of secret adventure it was Margaret whom he encountered. But the country in which he found her was strange to him. He was conscious always of having overstepped his boundaries. To stray, even in dreams, beyond his steel wall was to expose himself to forces outside his experience, and now life seemed indefinably dangerous as it had never seemed before.

It is this sense of danger, experienced by all natures neither utterly animal nor merely trivial, that gives to love both its dignity and its finest colour. It is never more acute than in minds that have been isolated or confined, for to these the new world is new indeed. John was so much a stranger to the perilous country that as yet he did not call it by any name. In childhood his shy reserve had withheld him from close friendship. His mother had been an invalid—“too frail to be hugged”—and it was not until circumstances had placed her beyond his reach that her strength had in some measure returned to her. His nurse, unusually free from a mistress’s supervision, had been too occupied with her own affairs to accept the devotion which John would have given so eagerly. He had no sister upon whom to expend his affection. For lack of outlet, emotion had accumulated within him until its force could no longer be resisted.

Margaret had seemed so inaccessible, by reason of her own position and of the distances which must always divide him from her, that John had never regarded her as a prize he might hope to win. The thought of her was as a clear bugle awakening the finest legions of his mind—thoughts which had slept long, and, being aroused, were masters of the evil in him, masters of sorrow and loneliness and pain, as faith is master of us all while faith endures.

And now, though the difficulty of her position remained, the miles between them were to be swept away. For on the China Station ships remained long in one port, and leave was more generously given than elsewhere. John listened gladly to the tales that were told of Yokohama and Tokio, of Hong Kong and Shanghai, but repeated to himself, happy in the possession of his secret, “She will be there, and there will be no London to absorb her.” It was almost incredible that the news which, when it was given, had seemed disastrous should have become the substance of his happiness.

Then doubt arose. The first letters Margaret wrote to Hugh on the subject had confirmed Mr. Alter’s tale; both her father and mother had been in favour of her going. Then her tone had become less assured.

“I don’t know whether I shall go to China after all,” she wrote. “Father is discovering difficulties—or, rather, Mr. Ordith, who has been to China, is discovering them for him; and now he talks of taking mother with him, and leaving me in the charge of some aunt—I don’t know which aunt.”

And in a later letter:

“Father seems to have decided now that I am to stay in England. I am horribly disappointed. It may be the only chance I shall ever have of seeing the East—and the East is changing so fast. Mother is still on my side, I think, though she doesn’t like to say very much. It is so difficult for her and for me to argue, because neither of us knows anything about China, and Mr. Ordith, who has been staying with us again, is full of facts and figures. I wonder why he is so much against my going? He is always pointing out difficulties. He has a mind like a blue-book, all tabulated and accurate. You can almost hear him saying, ‘Section Two, Sub-section Four—so-and-so; Sub-section Five—so-and-so.’ What can an ordinary human being do in face of that? Of course, father is tremendously impressed. He says it is so refreshing to meet a young man with an orderly mind. There’s no doubt that Mr. Ordith is clever, and very attractive—in a way. I dare say he is right about the Chinese horrors, but, even if he is, there’s no need to tell the truth so often. But I still have hopes. Nothing is definite yet. Perhaps if I light enough of father’s cigarettes and warm his Times for him every morning, he may relent. Or perhaps all the aunts will refuse to have me, if I get my word in first.”

When these letters arrived Hugh paid little attention to them. He had made up his mind that his family was leaving England, and he refused to be deluded by false hopes. But now, when his attitude towards the matter had been changed, he read over with real anxiety such of Margaret’s letters as he had not destroyed.

“This fellow Ordith,” he said to John, when the extracts had been read aloud, “seems likely to be an infernal nuisance. He is a Gunnery Lieut. R.N.—a star-turn at Whaley, an inventor and that kind of thing. My father’s firm, Ibble and Company, has a lot of Admiralty contracts. I suppose that’s how they met.”

“What has your sister said about it since?”

“I tore up the letters before we left the King Arthur. I kept these only by chance—mixed up with some books. But, so far as I can remember, she hasn’t said anything—certainly nothing definite. And she hasn’t mentioned Ordith, I’m sure. It’s odd, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think she has had a row with him?”

“No; but—— Anyway, we shan’t know anything until we get home to England.”

Hugh laughed. “I believe you are just as keen as I am that my—that my people should go to China.”

John answered quickly: “You see, I am counting on your invitations to give me an excuse for leave.”

II

After spending nearly a week at home, John came up to London on the first Friday of his leave. He was to stay with the Fane-Herberts, who were giving a dance on the following day, and before he returned to the country he and Hugh were to go together to Mr. Reeve’s London branch and order the clothes they would need in China.

“I am afraid it is no good,” Hugh told him. “It seems to be definitely fixed that Margaret is to remain in England.”

But at dinner that night they were thrown once more into perplexity. Mr. Fane-Herbert was away in the North, and was not expected home until Saturday afternoon, when he would bring Mr. Ordith with him.

“I believe Mr. Ordith is a wonderful dancer,” Mrs. Fane-Herbert said.

“From all accounts,” Hugh replied, “he must be wonderful at everything.”

“My dear Hugh, you speak as if you disliked him already, without ever having seen him.”

“I don’t dislike him, but I can’t see what he has to do with our affairs.”

“Our affairs?”

“Margaret’s going to China. It was all fixed up before Ordith came on the scene.”

Mrs. Fane-Herbert smiled. This was a chance better than she had hoped for. “Now,” she said, “shall I show you how wrong you are? I had a letter from father this afternoon, and, so far as I can judge, for he is not at all definite, he has been thinking it all over, and has come to the conclusion——”

“That I am to go after all, mother?” Margaret interrupted. “Do say I am to go!”

“Well, dear, I don’t want you to be disappointed again, but I must say that father seems to incline more towards taking you.... So you see, Hugh, how little Mr. Ordith had to do with the matter. It is very foolish to make rash judgments.”

“But why has father changed his mind?”

“It doesn’t matter why,” said Margaret. “The point is that he has changed it.”

Hugh shrugged his shoulders. “It beats me, I confess.”

His mother allowed Hugh’s suspicion to fade into silence. To have attempted to remove it would have been to emphasize it, and this she wished to avoid. Her husband’s letter had given her two pieces of information, the last of which explained the first. “I think,” he had written, “that, after all, Margaret had better come with us when we leave England. Edith might not wish to be burdened with her. I know you would like to have her with you, and that she herself is anxious to come. There are many obstacles, but, if you have really set your heart on taking her, none that I am not prepared to overcome if I can. We will talk it over when I reach home.” Mrs. Fane-Herbert, when she read this, was as astonished as Hugh had been when he heard of it; but at the end of the letter, separated from her husband’s decision by more pages than he usually troubled to write to her, was a brief announcement which made all clear: “Ordith has been appointed to the Pathshire as an additional Gunnery Lieutenant. Isn’t it a strange coincidence in connection with Hugh?” To Mrs. Fane-Herbert it was an illumination uncomfortably brilliant.

She established at once the connection between her husband’s change of mind and Mr. Ordith’s change of plan. But would Margaret establish it? If possible, that must be prevented. Mrs. Fane-Herbert was tempted to say nothing of the contents of her letter, to leave her husband to make the best of it on his return. But his best, in this instance, would, she knew, be bad indeed. He thought of Margaret as of a child without perception. He would not trouble to deceive her.

Mrs. Fane-Herbert realized that she herself must give these two pieces of information to Margaret in such a manner as might prevent their being connected with each other. The responsibility and the chance of failure made her nervous and troubled. Dinner was to be an ordeal. She wished that her husband was not so successful a man—at any rate, that success had not blinded him to so many things she would have liked him to see and value. She wished that Mr. Ordith had not so much ability and charm; that she could bring herself to dislike him frankly, and so to form a clear policy with regard to him. He might make an admirable husband. She did not think so. But what was there against him? Nothing but her instinct and Mr. Alter’s saying that the young man had a systematized soul. Her husband wanted him in Ibble and Company. She had seen, scribbled on a blotting-pad in the writing that, years ago, had filled her love-letters, the words “Ibble and Ordith—Ordith and Ibble,” as if the amalgamation was already accomplished and a dispute about the nomenclature had begun. Mr. Ordith would leave the Service and succeed his father, Sir George Ordith, as head of Ordith and Co. The plan was cut and dried, as were all Mr. Fane-Herbert’s plans. But she hated the whole project. Even if the result were excellent, she hated this involving of Margaret in the affairs of Ibble and Co., for Ibble and Co. had already robbed her husband of the qualities she had loved best in him. She disliked it the more because her husband had never dared speak openly of it, and because she had never dared mention it to him. She knew how he would answer. Was he trying to force the girl? Absurd! He was trying to give a fair chance to a young man whom he liked—surely a reasonable and proper course? Oh yes, reasonable and proper! Mrs. Fane-Herbert thought helplessly. But wrong, she felt—wrong in motive and bad in effect. If it were not wrong, why did it already compel her to fence with her own children?

Hugh had helped her at the beginning of dinner. The first piece of information had been naturally given, she thought. Now for the second, which was the test. She led the conversation into new channels, and talked much and well—just as Mr. Fane-Herbert had written those intermediate pages in his letter. But too long a delay would draw attention to itself. Margaret would wonder why she had put off speaking of Mr. Ordith. When should she speak?

She waited until dinner was ended. Then she paused in the open doorway.

“Oh, and Hugh, father said in his letter something of Mr. Ordith’s being appointed as additional Gunnery Lieutenant to the Pathshire. Isn’t that an odd chance?”

“Ordith, too, going to China?”

“I suppose so.”

Mrs. Fane-Herbert made her way towards the drawing-room. She knew Margaret was watching her. Why, oh why, had Hugh said, “Ordith too?” Or was it her imagination and not his voice that had so laid the emphasis? She did not look round to search Margaret’s face, though her desire to do so was almost too strong for her. In a moment Margaret would speak, and her tone, even more clearly than her words, would indicate how much she had guessed.

But as they entered the drawing-room Margaret said: “If I am to go East, mother, I shall want dozens of new frocks, shan’t I?”

And Mrs. Fane-Herbert was left without enlightenment.

III

Mr. George Ordith, later a baronet, and head of the great armament firm honoured by the serious jealousy of Ibble and Co., had trained his son Nicholas with extraordinary care and consistency. He had been terrified lest Nick, who was to inherit all that a life’s toil had accumulated, should value it little and dissipate it rashly. Therefore, almost as soon as Nick’s fingers were able to close about the coin, a penny had been thrust into his palm, and, when he had held it a little while, been taken from him and dropped loudly into a money-box bearing his name. Nick enjoyed the tinkle, and crowed in accompaniment. The process was repeated every Saturday morning, until at last, because he was never allowed to play with them, Nick came to have a respect for pence. The money-box was cleared annually, its contents supplemented by a sovereign, which was George Ordith’s Christmas gift to his baby (for it was left to womenfolk to present what were described as “baubles and gewgaws”), and the whole was added to Nick’s deposit in the Post Office Savings Bank. By the time he was out of dresses he was a capitalist. Only Mrs. Ordith’s earnest entreaties saved her son from being taught to read from the financial columns of the newspapers. At school, Stocks and Shares were to Nick an exciting reality, and, at the age of fifteen, he withdrew from the Post Office all his money except half a crown, gave it to his father in return for a cheque drawn in favour of the parental broker, and instructed this gentleman to purchase on his behalf certain Meat Shares in the Argentine.

From this it must not be deduced either that George Ordith was a miser or that he wished his son to become one. He said a thousand times that money was not everything; that it could not purchase happiness; that, though it was a blessing to wise men, it was a curse to fools. And Nick said, “Yes, father,” and asked, as other children might ask for a coveted toy, when he might have some of those coupons that were cut off with scissors. George Ordith had acted upon a theory that the sons of hard-working, careful men are often wasters. He had wished to nip in the bud any natural tendency in Nick to become a waster. And he erred in this, that Nick had been so made that waste would in any case have been repugnant to him. If George had not provided a money-box, Nick would have been impelled by instinct to manufacture one out of the first empty tobacco-tin whose lid he could pierce. If George had not built up the firm of Ordith, Nick would probably have established it.

Thus had nature and training, instead of counteracting each other’s effects, as Sir George Ordith had intended, been allies in the production of the young Gunnery Lieutenant in whom Mr. Fane-Herbert found so much to admire. He had taken firsts in every examination in which it had been possible for him to take firsts; he had created a reputation for himself at Whale Island; he had played cricket and Rugby football for the Navy; he had smiled and danced himself into the favour of innumerable hostesses; he had a nice taste in wines, a beautiful touch in billiards, a safe seat on any horse, and an inexhaustible supply of words, which flowed like oil from his lips. He was tall, dark, and technically handsome. Moreover, he had a level head—a head so level that business men, while they admired him, looked back sometimes to the days of their own youth, and reflected that, after all, young Ordith must be missing a great deal. They would have liked an opportunity to raise their eyebrows now and then, and to say, “Ah well, boys will be boys!”

But Nick never gave them a chance. He condescended so far as to appear gallant and rash in the presence of women who he thought would like that kind of thing; but in the presence of men from whom something might be expected he gave no judgment which was not a considered judgment, offered no opinion without quoting his authority for the facts upon which it was based, relapsed into thoughtful silence when he had no opinion to offer, and added little by little to his reputation for soundness.

In a book to which he made frequent reference he wrote down such details concerning his friends’ habits and tastes as might aid him in his dealings with them. A glance into this volume reveals much of the writer.

“Fane-Herbert, Walter.—Proud of cellar. Always offers to pay for things—don’t let him. Likes to be taken aside from large company as if conversation private and important. Sharp business man—try no tricks. Wants me in Ibble’s—obviously with view to amalgamation. Be dense about this. Probably fond of daughter when it comes to the pinch. Personalty (authority, K.S.K.), over 700 thou. One son in addition to daughter. Pleased with his feet—ask size of boots occasionally. Eton best school in the world. Expectancy of life, 15 yrs.

“Fane-Herbert, Mrs.—Avoid cynicism. Ask her advice often. Points for flattery: upbringing of children; fineness of bed and table linen; acquaintance with Parnell—touch this carefully; Irish descent, rather remote. Keep off subject of husband’s success. Keep business in the background. Money not mentioned—except in connection charitable purposes. Acute woman. Guesses about Ibble and Ordith, and about daughter. Private income probably small. Ought to die well first.

“Fane-Herbert, Margaret.—Exceptional, requiring exceptional treatment. Flattery must be restrained and veiled. Probable points for flattery: shape of fingers; piano; knowledge of books; power to see through pretences. Certain points for flattery: imperviousness to it—and ability to keep secret. Necessary to cultivate literary conversation. (Literature Primers, Edited by J. H. Green, and English Lit. by Stopford Brooke, Macmillan and Co.; for contemporary lit. try Bookman—? something more advanced.) Be careful not to split infinitives; also use singular after none—e.g., ‘none of them is....’ Introduce ideals into all talk of the future. Might talk of improving the conditions of Ordith’s workpeople, and thus establish secret between her and me—but make quite sure bunkum of that kind doesn’t spread and make things awkward at Ordith’s. Probably make good hostess. Not extravagant, but might develop philanthropic tendencies. To me very attractive: keep this clear in mind, as it may be dangerous. Don’t touch her too much; guard eyes. Go slow. Impulsiveness would probably be effective, but I am not good at this, so better act judiciously.”

Nick Ordith clearly perceived his own weakness. He wished that Margaret, the girl, were less important to him, and that he could regard her as no more than a link with Ibble’s and a beneficiary under her father’s will. This amalgamation was to be a big affair, and he would have preferred to approach it with a cool head—with a head, that is, not inflamed by any passion that disputed his customarily perfect control. But, though you bind the Devil hand and foot, he will lash you with his tail. All Nick’s care to restrict every tendency in him that might interfere with his material success could not prevent him from losing command a little in Margaret’s presence, and he knew that some day, at a moment when he least expected it, that command might break down altogether. He thrilled at her touch; he thought of her at night when he ought to have been thinking of fire-control instruments. And he knew he stood in danger of revealing all this. Women, a few women, had so twisted him before. He had no confidence in his ability to handle Margaret as if she were built of the cool ivory of a chess-piece. She was young—ten years his junior, and she was unspoiled. Youth and the unspoiled had for him an attraction more powerful than his will. There might come a time when he would lose the game as a result of his reluctance to sacrifice his Queen. Certainly she would exercise an undue influence upon his strategy.

He determined to dance with her that Saturday night as often as he dared neglect more urgent business, and at dinner primed himself for brilliance. Mr. Hartfeld of the Foreign Office and Mr. Street of the Admiralty were present, and treated him with more deference than the ordinary naval officer has a right to expect from Government Departments. Mr. Fane-Herbert established himself with his back to the smoking-room fire when dinner was over, smiling at Street, Hartfeld, and Ordith, and glaring at Hugh until he suggested that he and John should go and play billiards. At last the four great men were left alone to discuss the prospects of the Empire overseas.

The detail of their conversation is not for the ears of the less fortunate who hold no stock in armament firms, but the spirit of it may be revealed in its conclusion.

“Of course,” said Mr. Fane-Herbert, “it is understood that we shall act with the greatest reserve. Ordith’s presence out there will appear accidental—or at any rate, whatever they may think, no one will dare to say that it is otherwise. He will be my friend and personal adviser—in no way personally interested.”

“The Foreign Office has nothing to do with it,” said Hartfeld.

“Nor the Admiralty,” Street echoed.

Street flicked the ash from his cigarette. “It is of the utmost importance that we should be committed to nothing.”

“But we can rely upon your support?”

Hartfeld nodded. “Speaking for myself alone; I can’t answer for others.”

“Isn’t that a little nebulous?” Ordith asked.

“We can do no more than promise to do our utmost,” said Street, in the pained voice of one whose offer of his life’s blood has been scorned.

“We shall be grateful,” said Ordith.

“Most grateful,” Mr. Fane-Herbert added solemnly. He knew how foolish it was to ruffle officials. “Another brandy, Street? A cigar?”

“But, apart from the question of gratitude and the gentlemanly preamble,” Ordith continued, “let’s see exactly how we stand. As I see it——”

“My dear fellow,” Hartfeld exclaimed, flourishing a delicate hand, “why this passion for black and white? Everything depends upon the fluctuations of circumstance——”

“Lord help us! Why not say of ‘Change’?”

Mr. Fane-Herbert gave him a glance which advised that, since these were not business men, they should not be treated as such. They must be allowed to talk if they wanted to. “You were saying, Hartfeld—the fluctuations of circumstance?”

“Upon the fluctuations of circumstance and the—er—signs of the times. Definite commitments in affairs of this kind are always dangerous, and are only to be obtained at the price of elasticity.”

“In other words,” said Street, “we want to give you the freest possible hand.”

Three of them nodded wisely. Ordith’s fingers moved lightly on the arms of his chair. He had not wanted these people brought into it. “They can’t help,” he had said. But Mr. Fane-Herbert had taken him by the shoulder; “No, they can’t help—granted. But they can hinder. Look on their talk as the price you pay for a retainer, see?”

“Then what it comes to,” Ordith said, “is that you are concerned in these contracts that we hope to obtain simply from the point of view of the national interest, eh?” So far as he knew the question was meaningless, but he felt that it would please them.

“Exactly,” they answered together.

“And you afford facilities?—a diplomatic phrase, surely?”

“Every facility.”

Mr. Fane-Herbert’s approving eye was upon him. “Then success ought to be assured so long as there are no competitors.” That was the point.

“Competitors?” said Hartfeld. “We can’t answer for foreign competition.”

“No; I was thinking of competition from home. Ibble’s is not the only firm in the British Isles.”

“By no means,” said Street gracefully.

“Oh, I can answer for Ordith’s; we have arranged that. There are others.”

“I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly interfere with legitimate commercial competition.”

“No one would ask it of you. But your attitude towards us will be at least benevolent?” Ordith said.

“Certainly,” Hartfeld answered.

“Good.”

“It will be a brilliant success!” Street exclaimed.

“Success,” said Ordith, “depends less upon genius than upon an adequate appreciation of the platitudes.”

This faith, so authoritatively expressed by a successful young man, was put to the test soon after the dance had begun. He saw Margaret dancing with John—her eyes shining with happiness in a manner that might have caused another lover a little uneasiness. But Ordith did not for a moment feel insecure. He could see that John had gained ground, that the first ramparts of reserve had been overpassed; but he had no fear. “Unlike poles attract,” he repeated, choosing his platitude, and confident of his power to carry attack upon that line to a successful issue. So, before seeking out the important lady he had seen among the crowd and had chosen for his immediate favour, he stood gazing at Margaret’s neck and shoulders and admiring her movement with the eye of an anatomist.

He did not know that John had advanced farther than the first ramparts. In the morning, when he and Hugh had gone together to buy their China equipment, Margaret had come to offer feminine advice on materials. She had watched them turning over shirts, and hesitating, and retracting decisions in the manner of men at the counter. Women and their shopping? Oh, but men were infinitely worse! They had so small a field of choice, and yet they got lost in it. She laughed at this and a thousand trifles, and laughter is the truest ranging-arrow in love’s quiver. London, too, with its bright sun and sky, and the cool wind that stirred up the sweet scent of her furs, had conspired to bring them together. Hugh joined the conspiracy by accepting an invitation to lunch with an old friend whom he met in Mr. Reeve’s shop. John and Margaret came home by way of Marble Arch and a diagonal cut through the Park. The dying winter was old and weak—so weak that he could not gather up and hide away in his dark box the coins of gold scattered beneath the trees by the sunshine or the strands woven among the grasses. And, as they went, they talked of all the things on earth they held most dear—their nurseries and old toys, terra-cotta flower-pots, the summer sound of lawns being mown, firelight in mirrors, books, the silky touch of dogs’ ears—each as the centre of some tale which seemed peculiar to their own autobiographies, though, at that moment, it was being remembered afresh, in one form or another, by every young creature—and every old one, too, who wasn’t too stupid to value such things—from Kensington Palace to the western pavement of Park Lane.

John and Margaret, like all the other young creatures, had no idea of this. They felt as if they were telling each other secrets—which is the best known of love’s tricks. In truth, they were but beginning to discover the secrets of themselves, and had not yet had time to become so confused as the rest of us in life’s attempt to draw a boundary between the soul and the body. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes! There was no dust, there were no ashes, their hearts argued; therefore all—her lips and the colour the wind had whipped into her cheeks, his frank eyes, and brown, fine-cut hands—all must have something of the soul in them. What reason had they to doubt? They were not afraid, and fear goes hand in hand with the Devil. Their happiness was of the clean kind they would have liked to sing about to all the world.

So it happened that they danced together that evening with all the memories of daylight and keen air to lend magic to the flowers and the sparkling lamps and the murmur of stringed instruments.

“I love the little pointed shadows under everybody’s feet,” she said, “and the vague pools of light in the polished floor. It’s better than fairies on the village green.”

“That’s not an absolute opinion,” he answered, laughing. “Shouldn’t we be on the side of the fairies if we were dancing on green grass now?”

To him it mattered only that they were dancing together, and her silence acquiesced in his mood.

“There’s any number of people,” he exclaimed, “who are wishing the music would stop. It’s strange to think of other people being tired and bored.”

“Perhaps this isn’t the music they care for.”

“The old people?”

“Yes; probably they remember other tunes. Shall I ask the orchestra to play something that was heard all over London thirty—forty—fifty years ago? Shall I?”

They are for ever asking each other questions.

“Do you think anyone would dance to it?”

“I don’t know. Would we dance to this—fifty years on?”

He brushed aside the unimaginable future. At this moment she was his, her voice speaking close to him, the curve of her cheek and forehead clear beneath his eyes. He imagined suddenly that he would remember this instant, that his future would be full of it; and it took to itself already some of the glamour of history.

“Oh,” said she, “there’s Mr. Ordith watching us!”

The charm was lifted. He could not endure that another should peer over his shoulder into the history-book of fancy, or that a stranger’s eye should witness the building of this magic temple in which the moment was to be preserved against the assaults of all time. Soon the music faded into silence. A few feet slid on, and then stopped. The room filled with human voices.

“That’s the end,” she said softly, and he did not find the remark unnecessary. They sat down somewhere and talked little, each aware of anticlimax. John was almost glad when Ordith, graceful and self-confident, came up and took her away.

Perhaps her own emotion was communicated to Ordith; perhaps he, perceiving it in her, realizing—as she did not—from what source it flowed, and trying to take advantage of it, was himself entrapped. He pursued a policy of what he described to himself as “talking big”; he played upon an imagination already excited.

“I can’t bear to leave London,” he said. “And you are actually eager to go! Life centres here. The people in this room have their fingers on the pulse of the world.”

“The politicians?”

He smiled over her shoulder. “Yes. I know it is a middle-class fashion to despise them. I can’t despise men with power and knowledge. And not the politicians only. Everybody is here—the artists who matter, the thinkers who are in touch. And at this moment, a crisis in the history of the world, I am to go away.”

He made it sound a tragedy.

He knew that to Twenty Years the present is always the opportunity of mankind—and an unpromising Twenty Years it would be if it thought otherwise. He knew, too—for his shrewdness went deeper than the surface—that Twenty Years has an understanding of many truths that Disappointment, not Philosophy, describes subsequently as illusions. But, so far as his immediate purpose was concerned, it mattered nothing whether the ideas that dominated Margaret were illusory or not. Only the fact of their domination was of importance to him, for they were to be a means to his own dominion. He spun a web of dreams that he might entangle her in it. His voice, which he could tune to the very ring of sincerity, told her how the future was to be glorious. There was to be battle against all the powers of evil—a new political outlook, new relations between state and state, and between governors and governed. That was the mission of their generation.

“We must grip the essentials,” he said. “We must permit no compromise. And, above all, we mustn’t lose ourselves in mere talk—we must act temperately, and according to a clearly-conceived plan.... And women!” he exclaimed. “What a tremendous chance! Your influence is growing every day; soon it will be direct as well as indirect. And then the best of you will not be content to manipulate the party strings at dinner-tables. You will be cutting them where they are obstructive. You will come with free hands—no stale tradition—no fear of precedent—no corruption of ideals.”

He felt proud when he had delivered himself of this. It would win him laurels, he thought, among the forward young men, with their pamphlets and loose collars, their carpet-slippers and their political ikons. And Margaret was in a mood to question little. Cynicism and doubt had small influence over her that night. Was not Mr. Ordith her father’s friend?—and, Heaven knew! he was no vague idealist. And had not Mr. Ordith a reputation for soundness and level-headedness where such a reputation was most difficult to win? She paused neither to doubt nor to believe. It was enough that his enthusiasm awakened in her a sensation of warmth and brilliance, of assurance and power. And, though she danced with him a second and a third time, and though intervals elapsed between the dances, the sensation endured, and grew in intensity, grew until—so inflammatory are wine, ideals, and the contact of dancing—Ordith, too, became aware of its heat, and flamed amazingly, so that he was cool-headed no more. The conflagration, he found, gave him greater power over her—though power of a new kind. He was too wise to speak personal endearments to her, even the lightest, but his voice assumed a lower, more intimate tone, and vibrated now with a passion that was not artificial. He spoke of the foolishness and selfishness of other women, their blindness to ideals—how he loved that word!—their fear of sacrifice, their failure to understand the real needs of the world. It was implied that she was wonderfully different from them all. How many and far-reaching were the victories within the scope of a mind inspired by her motives! Somehow he was to be her ally in these victories. “We,” he said, and “I,” but never “You,” thereby binding her to him without emphasizing her submission to the bond. The reality of triumph is in an opponent’s ignorance of his own defeat.

But control was slipping from Ordith. After a brief struggle he let it go, and rejoiced in his freedom. His eyes, looking down on her, lost their breadth of vision, and saw none of her surroundings. Her proximity obscured all else; his touch on her overwhelmed every other sensation. His muscles tightened his grip, but it seemed to him only that her body was laying a heavier and heavier weight upon his arm. He danced faster, but was aware only of greater rapidity of movement and breathing close to his heart.

Slowly this extraordinary concentration of his mind produced its effect upon her. First she became conscious of having, in his view, lost individuality, of having been relegated somehow to the position of an instrument. Her will was to revolt against that, but revolt was contrary to her inclination. She found a certain pleasure in the strength of the current that was bearing her away, even while she feared it. She said something; he did not answer. She repeated it; and from his silence understood that his mind would not receive her words. It was as if a wave, sweeping over her head and robbing her voice of its effect, had roused her to resistance. His arm had grown firmer about her. Her feet were scarce touching the ground. She wanted breath and foothold. She became frightened, active, determined to break free.

“Why are you dancing so fast?” was all she contrived to say.

But he heard, and looked down to drink in her powerlessness, to exult in his own power, to strengthen his grip again. He could not talk. His imagination was running on and on, dragging him with it. His thoughts, which had no traceable sequence, were presenting to him pictures of such vividness that he screwed up his eyes as if he might physically see them.

“I am tired,” Margaret said, shrinking into the conventional. “Shall we stop?” Then, a moment later, with a flash of determination that compelled his attention: “I want to stop.”

He let her go suddenly—too suddenly. Her eyes were raised questioningly for an instant, and, as he met them, were abruptly turned away. He took her out of the crowd. He wanted to get beyond the range of the many eyes that he imagined were turned upon him. She sat down where he told her to sit.

“Listen,” he said. “I told you just now that I was sorry to leave England. I want to tell you why. There’s so much to do here—so much danger to be warded off. And this going away is”—he paused feelingly—“is somehow shirking the fight. My father and I don’t agree on all points. I should like to see Ordith’s run differently—the position of our labour improved. I am on their side.... They know it.... Further, the whole attitude of armament firms must be changed. As matters stand their ambitions are warlike; their influence on political action is—well, you can understand that. And my chance to change all this is unique. No other young man has my opportunities. But I stand alone, absolutely alone. I——”

“But why are you telling this to me?”

“Because—oh, don’t you feel as I do? Don’t you——”

“But why are you telling it to me now?”

He was seized by an impulse to put away even this rattling imitation of reason, to make his spring now. All the world was moving so swiftly about him that he felt only force and sensation could keep pace with it. It pleased him to see that her eyes were frightened, and that, though she wanted to go away, she could not move. This was power; but he would not use it yet; he must not use it for months to come. Now he would go on saying something while he watched her.

“Can’t you understand why I am telling it to you?”

“You talk so fast,” she said, her hand travelling to her forehead.

“Then I’ll talk slower.”

“No,” she said, under her breath; but he paid no attention. His voice continued—to her ears as inexplicit as music.

“Between us we will lay great plans,” she heard him say presently, and her protest against being thus included was never uttered. “Out in the East—the home of all philosophy—we shall have time to think. Margaret, you will help me to get all this clear in my mind?”

All what? He didn’t know or care. It sufficed that he had bound her to him by some tie, the more difficult to break because it was so vague. Moreover, his use of her name had been resisted only by a quick intaking of breath.

“You will help me?” he repeated. “You must—you must.” Then, too confident, he stooped over her and reached with his hands for hers. By his lightest touch the spell he had laid upon her was broken. She started up, the blood tingling in her. She knew that she had acquiesced in something she had not considered, as if she had spoken in her sleep. His ascendancy was revealed as menacing—a cloud that overshadowed her, and, while it held her attention, warned her to take shelter.

“I can hear the music again.”

“But the next dance is ours.”

“No.”

“You promised. Look—your name.” He offered his programme, sure that she would not examine it or remember the number of the dance.

And she said without looking, “I can’t dance now.”

He answered as if he were stroking her. “Ah, you are trembling. What is the matter? Have I frightened you?”

“Frightened?” The sound of her own laugh restored her calmness. “What is there to be frightened of? But see,” she went on, holding out her programme, “I am sure you have made a mistake. This dance is Mr. Lynwood’s.”

John was coming up the stairs towards them. “Then I will find you again a little later,” said Ordith, and disappeared.

“What has happened?” John asked, looking into her face, which had now grown pale.

“Happened? Nothing—oh, nothing. I was a little tired, that’s all.”

And, in truth, Margaret knew of no cause for an effect so overwhelming. Looking back, she wondered how so strong an emotion had taken hold of her. Why had she been afraid? and why now was she conscious of having escaped, of having awakened—of having lost something, too?

“Let’s go and dance,” she said.

“No, not now,” John answered, “not if you are tired.” He led her away, and stopped opposite two chairs. “There,” he said, “sit there for a little while where it is cool. Don’t talk or worry.”

When she was seated he moved away a few yards, wishing to give her the time she needed. Gradually she realized that the cloud charged with so much power over her was indeed gone. The atmosphere seemed less stifling. Freedom of thought and action was returning. Presently she remembered John and was grateful because he had taken her away from the place where she had been with Ordith; and grateful, with warmth of gratitude, because he had known how to be silent. Her look summoned him.

“You don’t know how good you have been,” she said.

“I hated to see you hurt, to-night of all nights.”

“To-night?”

“Because everything seemed so good. I was looking forward to China and seeing you there. To-night seemed a kind of celebration of the future.”

“But that remains,” she said, as if the recollection of the fact surprised her. She could not forget Ordith’s power, or, for the time, think of any part of her existence as being altogether free from his influence. Where was he now? Was he near her? Involuntarily her hand went out to John’s sleeve.

She tried to thank him for what he had done. Her sense of relief, of safety after danger, made his chance intervention seem the result of his kindness of heart; and every word she spoke, hesitating and tremulous, between tears and laughter, was marvellous to him.

“Tell me,” he said, “what can I do? You haven’t told me the facts. Do you trust me a little?”

“There are no facts.”

“But he——”

“Oh, leave him!” she exclaimed. “Let’s go down to where all the people are. What time is it?” she added suddenly, as if awaking from a wild dream to the surer business of the day.

He told her, but was certain she did not hear, her thoughts having fled great distances by then. As he followed her, he realized dimly with how great a force he had to contend, but he did not understand how indirectly this force could act. He felt sure that Ordith must have been in some manner definitely violent—have tried to kiss her, he angrily imagined. Then her “Oh, leave him!” echoed in his ears.

“Margaret,” he said, “I haven’t been trying—to find things out. I wanted to help if I could.”

She turned to him with a little movement of confidence which was a full reward. “I know. Don’t think I am ungrateful. I shan’t ever forget. Your coming made everything different—and secure again. I would tell you about it if I could—if there was anything to tell; I think telling would help. But there’s nothing—nothing tangible, at least.” She shivered, as if something cold and flat had touched her. “Only a feeling of having been caught and of having broken free again.”

Together they went into the ball-room, where faces, still smiling their response to some jest spoken a moment earlier, seemed out of touch with reality. This colour, this light on chin and throat, this flash of jewels and gleaming of shirt-fronts, was as a picture in oils that had hung unnoticed while life pursued its course swiftly, and to which, now there was breathing space, attention had reluctantly returned.