Philip did not carry out his intention of leaving London as soon as escape could be accomplished without hurt to his parents' feelings. He felt as though helpless in the grip of some mysterious conspiracy that from day to day left him with hardly an hour that he could call his own.

"London is an awful place," he complained to his mother; "the smallest errand runs away with the best part of a day, buying socks and shirts for example, not to speak of boots and the tailor! Trades-people seem to take a delight in obstructing one at every turn. If you wish to buy a pair of gloves in comfort you have to be prepared to spend hours over it, what with going and coming and hunting about for what you really want!"

"Dearest boy, how you do exaggerate!" argued Lady Flint, fondly. "But I know what you mean. I always felt the same for the first month after I got home from India. Life is so different out there; plenty of space and no trouble over trifles, though one hardly calls setting oneself up in necessaries exactly a trifle anywhere. You ought to go to the dentist, too, and see a doctor, and have your eyes tested. Don't leave all that to the end of your leave, or the last month will be worse than the first. And your father thinks you ought to attend a levee."

"My teeth are all right, I'm not ill, and I can see perfectly well; also I am not going to attend a levee," he assured her firmly; he could not have explained his condition of mind to his mother even had he desired to do so; he could hardly account for it to himself. He felt restless and listless at the same time; he hated the crowds in the streets and the shops, the appointments to see relations that his mother cajoled him into making, the little luncheons and teas with aunts and cousins who were all so much more delighted to see him than he was to see them; and Grace was a nuisance; she dragged him hither and thither, tied him down to engagements without his permission, told him, when he protested, that he wanted "waking up." Miss Baker, to his surprise, was ever ready to aid and abet Grace in making up theatre and supper parties—always something—Sandown, Ranelagh, the Park, endless "tamashas"; Miss Baker appeared to have forgotten all her unworldly theories, and to be as keen on gaiety as the rest of them; and wherever they went he found himself at her side. Philip began to suspect his sister of match-making; the suspicion became a certainty one evening when he had accompanied her unwillingly to a great "crush" in Carlton House Terrace, which, to him, was just a kaleidoscope of colour and jewels, and a pushing, chattering throng.

The blaze of light, the crowd, and the scents, and the closeness of the atmosphere, despite blocks of ice and electric fans, confused and depressed him; he stood moody and resentful as Grace greeted her friends, kept introducing him: "My brother from India," and he had to listen and reply to vapid remarks about heat and snakes, and how interesting it must be to live in India, and so on; till at length, in desperation, he interrupted a conversation his sister was holding with a being whose coat-front was bespattered with orders, to tell her he meant to go home.

"This is more than I can stand," he said with suppressed impatience; "I'm off!"

"Oh, Philip, do wait; Dorothy is sure to be here presently, and then you'll be all right." Her eyes roved round the brilliant scene. "She was to meet us here, you know. You can't disappoint her."

"She won't be disappointed."

"Of course she will be. Philip," she added, with serious intention, "don't be a fool!"

"What do you mean?" he began hotly, but just then they were swept asunder by new arrivals, and as he turned to flee he encountered Miss Baker at the head of the stairs. He felt that a web was being woven around him; now he understood what they were all driving at—Grace, and his mother, and yes, Dorothy herself!—for as he met her eyes shining with welcome he realised that she, with everyone else, awaited but one outcome of their friendship. How blind he had been; he cursed his own denseness.

As a matter of course she attached herself to him. "Where shall we go? It's too early for supper, and I don't feel inclined to sit and listen to music. Let's find some comfortable corner where we can talk in peace."

"I am making for a comfortable corner farther away," he said petulantly; "I'm going home!"

"Oh!" her dismay was patent, "and when I've only just come? I've got something to tell you, something thrilling! Look here, I know this house well. Come along, follow me!"

What else could he do? Morosely he followed her, feeling rather as if he were walking in his sleep, through a door, along a passage, up a few steps, and they were alone in a pretty boudoir that was cool and quiet, fragrant with flowers, away from the crowd and the noise.

"Now we are safe! Give me a cigarette." Dorothy settled herself in a deep chair; the gleam of her hair against a pile of purple cushions, her long white arms and slender outline presented a striking picture, as Philip could not but note as he stood before her on the hearthrug. Had it not been for the disturbing idea that had taken definite shape in his mind this evening he would have felt soothed, contented, very much at home with her. As it was, he began to distrust his own powers of resistance. Either he must get out of London at once, or he would be forced seriously to consider the question of asking Lord Redgate's daughter to be his wife. If, as he could not help assuming, she expected him to propose to her sooner or later, opposition from her father was not to be anticipated. Dorothy would have her own way—given the chance. The fact that he was now actually contemplating the possibility startled him. What a mean brute he must be! He could never love the girl as a man should love the woman he married; if it became necessary he must tell her the truth, and put an end to all thought of anything but friendship....

"You are very glum to-night," she remarked, gazing at him through a cloud of smoke. "What is the matter?"

"Probably the usual curse of the Anglo-Indian—liver!" he replied, with an effort to speak lightly. "I've been eating and drinking too much ever since I got home. It's time I went in for the simple life, somewhere out of all this. It doesn't suit my peculiar constitution!"

"It doesn't suit me either," she said reflectively.

"You seem to thrive on it, anyway!"

"Oh! I am one of those chameleon people who can adapt themselves to any surroundings. I could be happy anywhere, on a desert island, in the Indian jungle—more particularly in the Indian jungle, provided——"

She paused and flicked some cigarette ash on to the carpet.

He took a little china saucer from the mantelpiece and placed it on a table beside her. "You must learn to be tidy wherever you are!" he said with mock severity, and added: "What was it you had to tell me?"

"A secret! Such a nice one, though soon it will be a secret no longer."

"Oh! Are you going to be married in spite of your contempt for my sex?"

She drew in her breath sharply, as though something had hurt her. "Why do you remind me of my silly ideas? Don't you think I have the sense to see when I have been wrong?"

He evaded reply to the question. "Well, out with this wonderful secret. Don't keep me in suspense."

"It's this—you are to have the C.S.I.!" she told him triumphantly. "The Star of India! Doesn't it sound splendid—glittering, glorious, grand!"

He stared at her stupidly, stammered: "How—how do you know?"

"Pater told me to-night, just as I was starting to come here," and she added naÏvely: "to come and meet you. Good old Pater, he is arranging it all. Now, what do you say to that for a piece of news?"

"It is extremely kind of him, but I don't want it, I don't deserve it!" he cried in desperation. "You must tell him—it must be stopped——"

"What on earth are you talking about? If you don't deserve it, who does? Anyway, it's to be yours, whether you feel you deserve it or not, and I can't tell you how proud I feel that in a kind of way you will have got it through me!"

Through her! and through her, if he chose to say the word, he could have all that, to the world, would appear to make life well worth the living. For the moment the temptation was strong, almost overwhelming. Here, for the asking, was the devotion of a clever, capable girl who had the makings of a true comrade, who would revive his ambitions, enter wholeheartedly into his career; he saw himself honoured, successful, beyond his dreams; a power in the country that he loved to serve, with every advantage, officially and socially, in his grasp. Why should he hesitate? Here was his chance! he stood at the turning-point of his existence that meant "fortune" without struggle or delay if he went boldly forward....

Then, all at once, sweeping aside the temptation, the brilliant outlook, came the thought of Stella, the true Star of his life and his heart; and dimly he felt that to barter the memory of that other star, however far from his reach, for tangible gain would be infamous, contemptible. The shadow was more to him than the substance; he could not do this thing and feel that his purpose was clean!

"I suppose you will think I am mad," he said slowly, with difficulty, "but there is something—something that stands in the way——"

The girl paled, dropped the end of her cigarette into the saucer, and he saw her hands grip the arms of the chair. "Is it—is it because——" she lost her self-control. "Oh! don't look at me like that! Can't you see—what does anything matter! Don't be so proud. Nothing can be too good for you—Philip!"

She rose, held her hands out to him, firm, square hands; he took them gently, reverently, and she swayed as she recognised the lack of passion in his touch.

Haltingly, as best he could, he tried to tell her the truth, but it all sounded so elusive, so unsubstantial, he felt he could hardly expect her to comprehend. Silence fell between them; he turned from her in painful regret.

She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Philip, don't you trust me? Do you think I can't know how you feel? If I can't help you in one way I can in another perhaps, by giving you all my sympathy and understanding. I hope if I had been placed as you are that I should have done exactly the same. I see—I realise——" she faltered pitifully, "that as things are you can't take the Star, you can't owe it to me in the least degree. I will explain somehow to my father; leave it to me, it isn't too late, and some day you will have it—earn it yourself entirely—and—it may be the other one too, I hope so, I do indeed! if she is worthy of you. But oh! how could she, how could she leave your letter unanswered! There may have been some mistake, it may come all right, don't give up hope. The most wonderful things happen. And I—I shall always be your friend——"

She stopped, breathing fast; she had spoken so rapidly, under such stress of emotion. As he met her strained, wide-open eyes she looked almost unreal. A mist clouded his vision; he felt choked as he tried to answer, to thank her; speech seemed so futile; for him the whole thing was beyond words; he knew he was failing hopelessly to express himself.

She gave a tremulous laugh that was half a sob. "It's all right, don't say anything, don't try. We both know. Let's get back to the crowd," and moving to the door she turned out the lights. Quickly she went before him, down the steps and along the narrow passage. He saw her mingle with the throng, her head held high, talking and laughing, a bright, conspicuous figure, a brave, noble-hearted girl! He wished honestly that he could have loved her; wished it quite apart from the solid advantages she could have brought him as his wife.