Having given Cheniston his word, Anstice set himself to carry out his share of the bargain with a thoroughness which did not preclude a very bitter regret that he had made this fatal promise.

As he had been of late in the habit of spending a good deal of time in the society of Iris Wayne, it was only natural that his absence should cause comment at Greengates; but while Lady Laura openly labelled Anstice as capricious and inclined to rate his own value too highly, Sir Richard more charitably supposed that the poor fellow was overworked; and Iris, after a day or two spent in futile conjecture as to the sudden cessation of his visits, accepted the fact of Anstice's defection with a composure which was a little hurt.

She had thought they were such friends. Once or twice she had even fancied he was beginning to like her—even to herself Iris would not admit the possibility of any return of liking on her side; and on the occasion of their meeting in the wayside cottage, when he had bandaged her wrist, he had spoken to her in a more confidential, more really intimate manner than he had ever before displayed.

In the weeks that followed that sudden leap into intimacy, they had been such good comrades, had enjoyed so many half-playful, half-serious conversations, had played so many thrilling tennis matches, that it was small wonder she had begun to look upon him as one of her most genuine friends; and his sudden absence hurt her pride, and made her wonder whether, after all, his friendliness had been merely a pretence.

Once or twice he met her in the village, but he only saluted her and hurried on his way; while the invitations which the ever-hospitable Sir Richard insisted on sending him were refused with excuses so shallow that even the good-natured host of Greengates refrained from comment.

The contrast between this ungracious behaviour and Bruce Cheniston's open delight in her society was strongly marked; and the friendliness of the younger man brought balm to Iris' sore heart, sore with the first rebuff of her budding womanhood. When Anstice failed her, refused her invitations, and appeared indifferent to her smiles, it was undoubtedly soothing to feel that in Cheniston she had a friend who asked nothing better than to be in her company at all hours, to do her bidding, and to pay her that half-laughing, half-earnest homage which was so delicate and sincere a tribute to her charms.

Anstice had spoken truly when he said the psychological moment was at hand. Until the day when his visits to Greengates ceased abruptly Iris had been inclined, ever so unconsciously, to look upon Anstice with a slightly deeper, more genuine regard than that which she gave to the other man; and had Anstice been able to seize the moment, to follow up the impression he had made upon her, it is possible she, would have listened to him with favour, and the tiny seed of affection which undoubtedly lay in her heart would have burst into a lovely and precious blossom which would have beautified and made fragrant the rest of their lives.

But Anstice might not seize the moment; and although Bruce Cheniston had hitherto taken the second place in Iris' esteem, when once she realized that Anstice had apparently no intention of renewing their late friendship she gently put the thought of him out of her heart and turned for relief to the man who had not failed her.

So matters stood on the morning of Iris' birthday, a glorious day in mid-July, when the gardens of Greengates were all ablaze with roses and sweet-peas, with tall white lilies whose golden hearts flung sweetest incense on the soft air, with great masses of Canterbury bells and giant phlox making gorgeous splashes of colour, mauve and red and white and palest pink, against their background of velvet lawns and dark-green cedar trees.

This was the day on which Bruce Cheniston had decided to put his fortune to the test; and as he looked out of his window at Cherry Orchard and noted the misty blue haze which foretold a day of real summer heat, he told himself that on such a day as this there could be no need to fear a reverse in his present luck.

He whistled as he dressed, and when the breakfast-bell rang he went downstairs feeling at peace with himself and all the world.

"'Morning, Chloe. What a day!" He stooped and kissed his sister as he passed behind her chair, and she looked faintly amused at the unusual salutation.

"Yes. A beautiful day." Her deep voice expressed little pleasure in the morning's beauty. "Are you going anywhere particular that the fine weather fills you with such joy?"

"No—only over to Greengates." He was so accustomed to making this reply that it came out almost automatically and certainly caused Chloe no surprise.

"It's Iris' birthday, isn't it, Bruce?" Cherry flatly refused to endow her uncle with the title which rightly belonged to him. "What are you going to give her?"

"Give her? Well, come round here, and you shall see."

Nothing loth, Cherry obeyed, and stood beside him attentively while he opened a small leather case and took out a pair of earrings each consisting of a tiny, pear-shaped moonstone dangling at the end of a thin platinum chain.

"Earrings! But Iris hasn't any holes in her ears, my dear!" Cherry's consternation was genuine.

"I know that, you little goose! But these don't want holes—see, you screw them on like this."

He took one of her little pink ears in his fingers and screwed on the earring deftly.

"There, run and look at yourself," he commanded, and she trotted away to an oval glass which hung on the wall between the long windows. As she moved, Cheniston passed the remaining earring to his sister.

"What do you say, Chloe—is it a suitable present for her ladyship!"

Chloe took up the little trinket with a rather dubious air.

"Somehow I don't think I can fancy Iris wearing earrings," she said; and Bruce, who had a respect for his sister's opinion which she herself did not suspect, looked rueful.

"But, Chloe, why not? You always wear them?"

"Certainly I do." As a matter of fact she did, and the pearls or sapphires which she affected were as much a part of her personality as her black hair or her narrow blue eyes. "But then Iris is a different sort of person. She is younger, more natural, more unsophisticated; and I'm not quite sure whether these pretty things will suit her charming face."

"Oh!" Bruce's own face fell, and for once Chloe felt an impulse of compassion with another's disappointment.

"At any rate they are very dainty and girlish," she said, handing back the case. "I congratulate you on your taste, Bruce. You might very easily have got more elaborate ones—like some of mine—which would have been very inappropriate to a girl."

"Why do you always speak of yourself as though you were a middle-aged woman, Chloe?" asked her brother with a sudden curiosity. "You seem to forget you are younger than I—why, you are only twenty-six now."

"Am I?" Her smile was baffling. "In actual years I believe I am. But in thought, in feeling, in everything, I am a hundred years older than you, Bruce."

Cherry's return to her uncle's side with a request to him to take out "the dangly thing what tickles my ear" cut short Bruce's reply, and breakfast proceeded tranquilly, while the sun shone gaily and the roses for which Cherry Orchard was famous scented the soft, warm air which floated in through the widely-opened windows.

Meanwhile Anstice was in a quandary on this beautiful summer morning.

Before he had pledged his word to Cheniston to stand aside and leave the field open to his rival, he had gladly accepted Iris' invitation to her birthday dinner and dance; but the thought of the dances she had promised him had changed from a source of anticipatory delight to one of the sheerest torment.

It had not been easy to avoid her. There had been hours in which he had had to restrain himself by every means in his power from rushing over to Greengates to implore her pardon for his discourtesy, and to beg her to receive him back into her most desirable favour. It had cost him an effort whose magnitude had left him cold and sick to greet her distantly on the rare occasions of their meeting; and many times he had been ready to throw his promise to the winds, to repudiate the horrible bargain he had struck, and to tell her plainly in so many words that he loved her and wanted her for his wife.

But he never yielded to the temptation. He had pledged his word, and somehow the thought that he was paying the price, now, for Hilda Ryder's untimely death, brought, ever and again, a fleeting sense of comfort as though the sacrifice of his own chance of happiness was an offering laid at her feet in expiation of the wrong he had all unwittingly wrought her.

But his heart sank at the idea of facing Iris once more, and the thought of her as she would surely be, the centre and queen of all the evening's gaiety, was almost unendurable.

At times he told himself that he could not go to Greengates that night. He was only human, and the sight of her, dressed, as she would surely be, in some shimmering airy thing which would enhance all her beauty, would break down his steadfast resolve. He could not be with her in the warm summer night, hold her in his arms in the dance, while the music of the violins throbbed in his ears, the perfume of a thousand roses intoxicated all his senses, and not cry out his love, implore her to be kind as she was fair, to readmit him to her friendship, and grant him, presently, the privileges of a lover....

And then, in the next moment he told himself he could not bear to miss the meeting with her. He must go, must see her once more, see the wide grey eyes beneath their crown of sunny hair, hear her sweet, kind voice, touch her hand....

And then yet another thought beset him. What guarantee had he that Iris Wayne would welcome him to her birthday feast? He had thrown her kindness back into her face, had first accepted and then carelessly repudiated her friendship; and it was only too probable she had written him down as a casual and discourteous trifler with whom, in future, she desired to hold no intercourse.

The sunshiny day which the rest of the world found so beautiful was one long torment to Anstice. Restless, undecided, unhappy, he went about his work with set lips and a haggard face, and those of his patients who had lately found him improved to a new and attractive sociability revised their later impressions of him in favour of their first and less pleasing ones.

At five o'clock, acting on sudden impulse, he rang up Greengates and asked for Miss Wayne.

After a short delay she came, and as he heard her soft voice over the wire Anstice's face grew grim with controlled emotion.

"Is that you, Dr. Anstice?"

"Yes, Miss Wayne. I wanted to say—but first, may I wish you—many happy returns of your birthday?"

"Thanks very much." Straining his ears to catch every inflection in her voice, Anstice thought he detected a note of coldness. "By the way, were those beautiful sweet-peas from you—the ones that came at twelve o'clock to-day?"

"I sent them, yes." So much, at least, he had permitted himself to do.

"They were lovely—thank you so much for them." Iris spoke with a trifle more warmth, and for a moment Anstice faltered in his purpose. "You are coming to dinner presently, aren't you? Seven o'clock, because of the dance."

"Miss Wayne, I'm sorry ..." the lie almost choked him, but he hurried on, "... I can't get over to Greengates in time for dinner. I—I have a call—into the country—and can't get back before eight or nine."

"Oh!" For a moment Iris was silent, and to the man at the other end of the wire it seemed an eternity before she spoke again. Then: "I'm sorry," said Iris gently. "But you will come to the dance afterwards?"

For a second Anstice wavered. It would be wiser to refuse, to allege uncertainty, at least, to leave himself a loophole of escape did he find it impossible to trust himself sufficiently to go. He opened his lips to tell her he feared it might be difficult to get away, to prepare her for his probable absence; and then:

"Of course I will come to the dance," he said steadily. "I would not miss it for anything in the world!"

And he rang off hastily, fearing what he might be tempted to say if the conversation were allowed to continue another moment.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Anstice entered the hall of Greengates that night; and by that time dancing was in full swing.

By an irony of Fate he had been called out when just on the point of starting, and had obeyed the summons reluctantly enough.

The fact that his importunate patient was a tiny girl who was gasping her baby life away in convulsions changed his reluctance into an energetic desire to save the pretty little creature's life at any cost; but all his skill was of no avail, and an hour after he entered the house the child died.

Even then he could not find it in his heart to hurry away. The baby's parents, who were young and sociable people, had been, like himself, invited to the dance at Greengates—had, indeed, been ready to start when the child was taken ill; and the contrast between the young mother's frantic grief and her glittering ball-gown and jewels struck Anstice as an almost unendurable irony.

When at last he was able to leave the stricken house, having done all in his power to lighten the horror of the dreary hour, he was in no mood for gaiety, and for a few moments he meditated sending a message to say he was, after all, unable to be present at the dance.

Then the vision of Iris rose again before his eyes, and immediately everything else faded from his world, and he hastened to Greengates, arriving just as the clock struck eleven.

He saw her the moment he entered the room after greeting Sir Richard and Lady Laura in the hall. She was dancing with Cheniston, and Anstice had never seen her look more radiant.

She was wearing the very shimmering white frock in which he had pictured her, a filmy chiffon thing which set off her youthful beauty to its highest perfection; and the pearls which lay on her milky throat, the satin slippers which cased her slender feet, the bunch of lilies-of-the valley at her breast, were details in so charming a picture that others besides Anstice found her distractingly pretty to-night.

And as he noted her happy look, the air of serene content with which she yielded her slim form to her partner's guidance, the light in the grey eyes which smiled into Cheniston's face, Anstice's heart gave one bitter throb and then lay heavy as a stone in his breast.

He hardly doubted that she was won already; and in Cheniston's proud and assured bearing he thought he read the story of that winning.

As he stood against the wall, unconscious of the curious glances directed towards him, the music ceased, and the dancers came pouring out of the ballroom to seek the fresher air without.

Passing him on her partner's arm, Iris suddenly withdrew her hand and turned to greet the late comer.

"Dr. Anstice!" It seemed as though her inward happiness must needs find an outlet, so radiant was the smile with which she greeted him. "You have really come! I thought you had failed us after all."

"No—I was sent for, at the last moment." Something in his strained tone seemed to startle the girl, for her eyes dilated, and with an effort Anstice spoke more lightly. "I couldn't get away, Miss Wayne, but you won't visit my misfortunes on my head, will you? You promised me some dances——"

"One has had to go." She looked down at her card. "I kept the fifth for you, but you may have the next if you like. I did not engage myself for that, thinking"—she paused, then smiled at him frankly—"thinking you might come after all."

Scarcely knowing what he did Anstice made some rejoinder; and then Cheniston, who had turned away for a moment, appeared to observe Anstice for the first time, and giving him a nod said rather curtly:

"Evening, Anstice; you've got here then, after all? Well, Iris, shall we go and get cool after that energetic waltz?"

They drifted out into the hall; and watching them go Anstice told himself again that Cheniston had won the day.

"Shall we sit out, Dr. Anstice?" He thought Iris looked at him rather strangely. "I ... I am rather tired—and hot—but still——"

"Let us sit out by all means, Miss Wayne. Shall we go into the conservatory? It is quite cool there—and quiet."

She agreed at once; and two minutes later he found her a seat in a corner beneath a big overshadowing palm.

Now that she was beside him he felt his self-control failing him. She was so pretty in her white gown with the pearls on her neck and the delicate moonstones dangling in her little ears....

"Dr. Anstice"—it was the girl who broke the silence—"do you know you have treated us very badly of late? You have never been near us for weeks, and our tennis match has not been decided after all!"

"I know I've behaved disgracefully"—his voice shook, and she half regretted her impulsive words—"but—well, I'm not exactly a free agent, Miss Wayne."

"No, I suppose a doctor rarely is," she answered thoughtfully; and he did not correct her misapprehension of his meaning.

"But I don't want you to think me ungrateful for your kindness." So much, at least, he might say. "If I have appeared discourteous, please believe that in my heart I have always fully appreciated your goodness—and that of your father."

She said nothing for a moment, looking down at her satin slippers absently; and he did not attempt to interrupt her reverie.

Then, with rather startling irrelevance, she said slowly:

"Dr. Anstice, have you ever been in Egypt? I know you have travelled a lot, and I thought perhaps——"

"No." Suddenly at this apparently innocent question a foreboding of evil fell on Anstice's soul with a crushing weight. "As you say, I have travelled a good deal; but somehow I have never visited Egypt. Why do you ask?"

"Because——" For yet another moment Iris hesitated, as though uncertain whether or no to proceed. And then, suddenly, she turned to face him with something in her eyes which Anstice could not fathom. "I asked because it is possible I may go to live in Egypt some day."

"I see," said Anstice very quietly. "You mean—Miss Wayne, I won't pretend to misunderstand you—you mean that Cheniston has asked you to marry him, and you have said yes."

Now the rosy colour flooded the girl's face until even her ears were pink; but her grey eyes met his frankly, and when she spoke her voice rang happily.

"You've guessed my secret very quickly," she said, relieved unconsciously by his calm manner and friendly tone. "Yes. Mr. Cheniston asked me to marry him an hour ago, and I agreed. And so, as he wants to be married almost at once, I shall have to prepare myself to live in Egypt, for a time at least."

"I don't think you need dread the prospect," he said, and his voice was creditably steady, though the world seemed to be crashing down in ruins around him. "Egypt must be a wonderfully fascinating country, and nowadays one doesn't look upon it as a land of exile. When do you think you will be going, Miss Wayne?"

"Well, Bruce has to be back in November," she said, "so if we are really to be married first"—again the rosy colour flooded her face—"it doesn't give me much time to get ready."

"No. I suppose I ought to congratulate you." He was beginning to feel he could not bear this torture much longer. "At least—it is Cheniston who is to be congratulated. But you—I can only wish you all possible happiness. I do wish it—from the bottom of my heart."

He held out his hand and she put her slender fingers into it. For just the fraction of a second longer than convention required he held them in his clasp; then he laid her hand down gently on her filmy chiffon knee.

"Miss Wayne"—he spoke rather hoarsely—"I wonder if you will think me a bear if I run away after this dance? I would not have missed these few minutes with you for anything the world might offer me; but somehow I am not in tune with gaiety to-night."

She shot a quick glance at his haggard face; and even in the midst of her own happy excitement she felt a vivid impulse of sympathy.

"Dr. Anstice, I'm so sorry." Just for an instant she laid her fingers gently on his arm; and the light touch made him wince. "You said when you came in that you had been detained, and you looked so serious I thought it must have been something dreadful which had kept you. I don't wonder you find all this"—she waved her small white fan comprehensively round—"jars upon you—now."

"Yes," he said, snatching at the opening she gave him, and longing only for the moment when he might say good-bye and leave her adorable, maddening presence. "It jars, as you say—not because it isn't all delightful and inspiring in itself, but because"—suddenly he felt an inexplicably savage desire to hurt her, as a man in pain may seek to wound his tenderest nurse—"because not many miles away from here there's a poor mother weeping, like Rachel, for her child, and refusing to be comforted."

She turned pale, and he felt like a murderer as he watched the light die out of her big grey eyes.

"A child—the child you went to see—it died?"

"Yes. She was just a year old—and their only child."

Now, to his remorse, he saw that she was crying; and instantly the cruel impulse died out of his heart and a wild desire to comfort her took its place.

"Miss Wayne, for God's sake don't cry! I had no right to tell you—it was brutal, unpardonable of me to cloud your happiness at such a moment as this. I ... I've no excuse to offer—none, at least, that you could understand—but it makes me feel the meanest criminal alive to see you cry!"

No woman could have withstood the genuine remorse in his tone; and Iris dabbed her eyes with a little lacy handkerchief and smiled forgiveness rather tremulously.

"Don't reproach yourself, Dr. Anstice. I ... I think I'm rather foolish to-night. And at any rate"—perhaps after all she had divined the soreness which lay beneath his spoken congratulations—"I'm sure of one thing—you did your best to comfort the poor mother."

"Thank you for that, at least," he said; and then, in a different key: "You won't think me rude if I leave after this?"

"Of course not." Suddenly Iris rose, and Anstice, surprised, followed her example. "Dr. Anstice, if you don't mind I'll ask you to take me back now. I think"—she smiled rather shyly—"I think I must just go and bathe my eyes. I don't want any one to ask inconvenient questions!"

Filled with anger against himself Anstice acquiesced at once; and in the hall they parted, Iris speeding upstairs to her room in search of water and Eau de Cologne with which to repair the ravages his heartless speech had caused.

At the last came a consolatory moment.

"Dr. Anstice." She held out her hand once more. "You are the only person—except my father—who knows what has happened to-night. Somehow I wanted to tell you because"—she coloured faintly, and her eyes dropped for a second—"because I think you and I are—really—friends in spite of everything."

"Thank you, Miss Wayne." His tone was so low she could barely catch the words. "Believe me, I value your friendship above everything else in the world."

He wrung her hand hard; and as she left him with a last fleeting smile he turned and found himself face to face with Bruce Cheniston.

At that moment the hall was empty; and before the other man could speak Anstice said quickly:

"So you've won the day, Cheniston. Well, congratulations—though God knows I wish with all my heart that you had failed."

"Thanks." Cheniston ignored the latter half of the sentence with a smile Anstice felt to be insolent. "So Miss Wayne told you? I had hoped to be the first to give you the information."

"Miss Wayne told me, yes," said Anstice, taking his hat and coat from the chair where he had thrown them on his late entrance, and turning towards the door. "And I don't know that there is anything more to be said between us. Oh, yes, there is, though. One word, Cheniston." The other man had followed him to the door and now stood on the steps looking out into the fragrant July night. "I think that in all fairness you will now agree that I have paid my debt to you; wiped it out to the uttermost farthing. In future"—turning on the lowest stop he faced the man who stood above him, and in his face was a look which no other human being had ever seen there—"in future we are quits, you and I. The debt is paid in full."

And before Bruce Cheniston could frame any reply to his words Anstice turned away and was lost in the soft summer darkness.