The Lodgings at King's were built at a period when the college demanded that its Warden should be a bachelor and a divine, and it contained neither morning-room nor boudoir. The Warden's breakfast-room was used by Lady Dashwood for both purposes.

It was not such an inconvenient arrangement, because the Warden, as the war advanced, had reduced his breakfast till it was now little more than the continental "petit dÉjeuner," and it could be as rapidly removed as it was brought in.

The breakfast-room was a small room and had no academic dignity, it was what Mrs. Robinson called "cosy." It was badly lighted by one window, and that barred, looking into the quadrangle. The walls were wainscoted. One or two pictures brightened it, landscapes in water-colour that had been bought by the Warden long ago for his rooms when he was a college tutor.

At the breakfast table on the morning following Gwendolen's brief interview with the Barber's ghost, her place was empty.

No one remarked on her absence. The Warden came in as if nothing had happened on the previous night. He did not even ask the ladies how they had slept, or if they had slept. He appeared to have forgotten all about last night, and he seated himself at the table and began opening his letters.

Mrs. Dashwood gave him one furtive glance when he came in and responded to his salutation. Then she also sat in silence and looked over her letters. She was making a great effort not to mind what happened to her, not to feel that outside these few rooms in a corner of an ancient college, all the world stretched like a wilderness. And this effort made her face a little wan in the morning light.

Lady Dashwood poured out the coffee with a hand that was not quite as steady as usual, but she, too, made no reference to the events of last night. Nobody, of course, had slept but Gwendolen, and Gwendolen had awakened from her sleep fresh and rosy.

It was only after several minutes had passed that Lady Dashwood remarked across the table to the Warden—

"I have kept Gwendolen in bed for breakfast, not because she is ill, she is perfectly well, but because I want her to be alone, and to understand that she has completely got over her little hysterical fit and is sensible again."

The Warden looked up and then down again at his letters and said, "Yes!"

Lady Dashwood went on with her breakfast. She evidently did not expect any discussion. She had merely wished to make some reference to the occurrence of last night in such a way as not to reopen the subject, but to close the subject—for ever.

"Is it your club morning?" asked the Warden, as he looked over his letters.

"Yes," said Lady Dashwood.

"I'll come and help you to cut out," said May. "I'm an old hand."

"Why should you come?" said Lady Dashwood. "This is your holiday, and it's short enough."

She thought that the Warden noted the words, "short enough."

"I shall come," said May, and glancing at her aunt as she spoke, she now fancied her grown a little thinner in the face since last night only that it was impossible. The lines in the face were accentuated by want of sleep, it was that that made her face look thinner.

"I shall take Gwen," said Lady Dashwood. "She can hand us scissors and pins, and can pick up the bits." She spoke quite boldly and quietly of Gwendolen, and met May's eye without a flicker. "Our plan, May, is to get these young mothers and teach them at least how to make and mend their clothes. It isn't war work. It's 'after the war' work. Those young mothers who have done factory work, know nothing about anything. We must get something into their noddles. Two or three ladies will be there this morning, and we shall get all the work ready for the next club meeting—mothers and babies. Babies are entertained in a separate room. We have tea and one half-hour's reading; the rest of the time gossip. Oh, how they do talk!"

"How much do you expect to get from the Sale of work to-day for your club?" asked May, avoiding the Warden's eye when he put out his hand to her for the cup of coffee that she was passing him.

"Not very much," said Lady Dashwood, "but enough, I hope."

A moment later and Lady Dashwood was opening her letters.

"Mr. Boreham," she remarked suddenly, "is bringing Mrs. Potten in to the Sale. He is the last person I should expect to meet at a Sale of work in aid of a mother's club."

The Warden raised his eyes and apparently addressed the coffee-pot across the table.

"Boreham is usually suspicious of anything that is organised by what he calls 'respectable people.'" Then he looked round at May Dashwood for the first time. The reason why Boreham was going to drive Mrs. Potten in to the Sale of work was obvious both to him and to Lady Dashwood. May did not meet the Warden's eye, though she was tinglingly conscious that they rested on her face.

"I object," she said, imitating Boreham's voice, "not only to the respectable members of the British public, but to the British public in general. I am irritated with and express my animosity to the people around me with frankness and courage. But I have no inimical feelings towards people whom I have never met. Them I respect and love. Their institutions, of which I know nothing, I honour."

The Warden's lips parted with a smile, as if the smile was wrung from him, but May did not smile. She was still making her effort, and was looking down into her plate, her eyebrows very much raised, as if she was contemplating there the portrait of somebody with compassionate interest.

Lady Dashwood saw the Warden's smile, and saw him lean forward to look at the downcast face of May, as if to note every detail of it.

Well into the early morning Lady Dashwood had lain awake thinking, and listening mechanically to the gentle breathing of the girl beside her, and thinking—thinking of May's strange exhibition of emotion. Was May——? No—that made things worse than ever—that made the irony of her brother's fate more acute! That was a tragic thought! But it was just this tragic thought that made Lady Dashwood now at the breakfast table observe with a subtle keenness of observation and yet without seeming to observe, or even to look. She sat there, absorbing May, absorbing the Warden, measuring them, weighing them while she tried to eat a piece of toast, biting it up as if she had pledged herself to reduce it to the minutest fragments.

"Perhaps I'm not fair to Mr. Boreham," said May, shaking her head. "But I am an ignoramus. How can one," she said smiling, but keeping her eyelids still downcast, "how can one combine the bathing of babies and feeding them, the dressing and undressing of them, the putting them to bed and getting them up again, with any culture (spelt with a 'c'). I get only a short and rather tired hour of leisure in the evening in which to read?"

"You do combine them," he said, still bending towards her with the same tense look. "Only one woman in a thousand would."

The colour had slightly risen in May's face, and now it died away, for she was aware that no sooner were the last words spoken than the Warden seemed to regret them. At least he stiffened himself and looked away from her, stared at nothing in particular and then put out his hand to take a piece of toast, making that simple action seem as if it were a protest of resolute indifference to her.

May felt as if his hand had struck her. She had partly succeeded in her effort and she had refused to glance at him. But she had not succeeded in thinking of something else, and now this simple movement of his hand made thoughts of him burn in her brain. Why did this man, with all his erudition, with his distinction, with all his force of character, his wide sympathies and his curious influence over others, why did this man with all his talk (and this she said bitterly) about life and death—and yes—about eternity, why did he bind himself hand and foot to a selfish and shallow girl? He who talked of life and of death, could he not stand the test of life himself?

The Warden rose from the table the moment that he had finished and looked at his sister. She had put her letters aside and appeared to have fallen into a heavy preoccupation with her own thoughts.

"Can I see you—afterwards—for a moment in the library, Lena?" he asked.

Lady Dashwood's tired face flushed.

"I will come very soon," she said, and she pushed her chair back a little, as if to cover her embarrassment, and looked at her niece. "May," she said, in a voice that did not quite conceal her trouble, "we ought to start at a quarter to ten. That will give us two clear hours for our work."

May bent her head in assent. Neither of them was thinking of the Club. They could hear the Warden close the door behind him. Then Lady Dashwood rose and casting a silent look at May, went out of the room.

In the library a fitful sunshine was coming and going from a clouded sky. The curtains were drawn back and there seemed nothing in the room that could have justified even a hysterical girl in imagining a ghost. The Warden had left the door open, for he heard his sister coming up the stairs behind him.

Lady Dashwood came in, and she began speaking at once to cover her apprehension of the interview. "A funny sort of a day," she began. "I hope it will keep up for this afternoon."

The Warden had gone to one of the windows, and he moved at the sound of her voice.

"Mrs. Harding," she said, "has written to ask us to come in to tea, as she's so near. It is convenient, as we shall only have to walk a few steps from our Sale, so I am going to accept by telephone."

The Warden came towards her, and taking a little case from his pocket, handed her some notes. "Will you spend that for me at your Sale?"

That was not his reason for the interview! Lady Dashwood took the notes and put them into her bag, and then waited a moment.

"I may possibly have to go to the Deanery this afternoon," he said, and then he paused too.

"Very well," said Lady Dashwood. They both were painfully aware that this also was not what he wanted to say.

"Please let me have my lunch early, at a quarter to one," he said.

"I have asked Mr. Bingham here to dinner on Saturday, he seemed to interest May, and, well, of course, it is not a lively holiday for her just now."

Lady Dashwood's eyes were on him as she spoke. He seemed not to hear. He went up to his desk and turned over some papers, nervously, and he was a man who rarely showed any nervousness in his movements.

Then he suddenly said: "Gwendolen has practically accepted my offer." And he did not turn round and look at his sister.

It had come! She knew it was coming, and yet it was as keenly painful as if she had been wholly unprepared.

"I can't delay our engagement," he said. "I must speak to her to-day—some time."

Then he moved so as to face his sister, and their eyes met. Misery was plainly visible in hers, in his the fixed determination to ignore that misery.

"May I ask you one question?" she began in a shaky voice.

He made no reply, but waited in silence for the question.

"When did it happen? I've no right to ask, dear, but tell me when did it happen?"

There was a strange look of conflict in his face that he was unable to control. "On Monday, just before dinner," he said, and he took some papers from the desk as if he were about to read them. Then he put them down again and took out his cigar case.

Lady Dashwood walked slowly to the door. When she reached it, she turned.

"No man," she said, still with an unsteady voice, "is bound to carry out a promise made in a reckless moment, against his better judgment, a promise which involves the usefulness of his life. As to Belinda, I suppose I must endure the presence of that woman next week; I must endure it, because I hadn't the sense—the foresight—to prevent her putting a foot in this house."

The Warden's face twitched.

"Am I expecting too much from you, Lena?" he asked.

"Expecting too much!" Lady Dashwood made her way blindly to the door. "I have wrecked your life by sheer stupidity, and I am well punished." At the door she stayed. "Of course, Jim, I shall now back you up, through thick and thin."

She went out and stood for a moment, her head throbbing. She had said all. She had spoken as she had never spoken in her life before, she had said her last word. Now she must be silent and go through with it all unless—unless—something happened—unless some merciful accident happened to prevent it. She went downstairs again and crossed the hall to the door of the breakfast-room. May was still there, holding a newspaper in her hands, apparently reading it.

Lady Dashwood walked straight in, and then said quietly: "They are practically engaged." She saw the paper in May's hand quiver.

"Yes," said May, without moving her paper. "Of course."

Her voice sounded small and hard. Lady Dashwood moved about as if to arrange something, and then stood at the dull little window looking out miserably, seeing nothing.

"I wonder—I hope, you won't be vexed with me. Aunt Lena," began May. "You won't be angry——"

"I couldn't be angry with you," said Lady Dashwood briefly, "but——" She did not move, she kept her back to her niece.

"I want you to let me go away rather earlier than Monday," said May, and speaking without looking towards her aunt. "I think I ought to go. The fact is——"

Lady Dashwood turned round and came to her niece. "Do you think I am a selfish woman?" she asked. There was a strange note of purpose in her voice.

May shook her head and tried to smile. She did smile at last.

"Then, May," said Lady Dashwood, "I am going to be selfish now. I ask you to stop till Monday, and help me to get through what I have to get through, even if you stay at some sacrifice to yourself. Jim has decided, so I must support him. That's clear."

May stared hard at the paper that was still in her hand, though she had ceased to read it.

"As you wish, dear aunt," she said, and turned away.

"Thanks," said Lady Dashwood, in a low voice. "I shall be ready to start in a few minutes," she went on, looking at her watch. Then she added bitterly, "I'm not going to talk about it any more, but I must say one thing. When you first shook hands with Jim he was already a pledged man. He is capable of yearning for the moon, but he has decided to put up with a penny bun;" here she laughed a hard painful laugh. "Nobody cares but I," she added. "I have said all I can say to him, and I am now going to be silent."

The door of the breakfast-room was slightly open and they could hear the sound of steps outside in the hall, steps they both knew.

The Warden was in the hall. Lady Dashwood listened, and then called out to him: "Jim!" Her voice now raised was a little husky, but quite calm. They could hear the swish of a gown and the Warden was there, looking at them. He was in his gown and hood, and held his cap in his hand. He was at all times a notable figure, but the long robe added to the dignity of his appearance. His face was very grave.

"May has not seen the cathedral," said Lady Dashwood quietly, as if she had forgotten their interview in the library, "and we shall be close to Christ Church. Our Sale, you know."

"Oh," said May, slowly and doubtfully, and not looking as if she were really concerned in the matter.

"May ought to see the cathedral, Jim," said Lady Dashwood, "so, if you do happen to be going to Christ Church, would you have time to take her over it and make the proper learned observations on it, which I can't do, to save my life?"

The Warden's eyes were now fixed on May. "You would like to see it?" he asked.

"You, May," said Lady Dashwood. It seemed necessary to make it very clear to May that they were both talking about her.

"I?" said May, with her eyes downcast. "Oh, please don't trouble. You mustn't when you're so busy. I can see the cathedral any time. I really like looking at churches—quite alone."

The Warden's blue eyes darkened, but May did not see them, she had raised her paper and was smiling vaguely at the print.

The Warden said, "As you like, Mrs. Dashwood. But I am not too busy to show you anything in Oxford you want to see."

"Thank you," said May, vaguely. "Thanks so much! Some time when you are less busy, I shall ask you to show me something."

The Warden looked at her for a more definite reply. She seemed to be unaware that he was waiting for it, and when she heard the movement of his robes, and his steps and then the hall-door close, she looked round the room and said "Oh!" again vaguely, and then she raised her eyebrows as if surprised.

Lady Dashwood made no remark, she left the room and went into the hall. The irony of the situation was growing more and more acute, but there was nothing to be done but to keep silence.

Another step was coming down the stairs, steps made by a youthful wearer of high heels. It was Gwendolen.

She looked just a little serious, but otherwise there was no trace on her blooming countenance of last night's tragedy. A little lump on her head was all that remained to prove that she really had been frightened and really and truly had stupidly thought there was something to be frightened of. Gwen constantly put her finger up to feel the lump on her head, and as she did so she thought agreeably of the Warden.

"You see I'm not a bit frightened," she said, and her cheeks dimpled. "When I passed near the library, I thought of Dr. Middleton."

"You understand, don't you, Gwen," said Lady Dashwood, "that I don't want any talk about 'a ghost,' even though, you are now quite sensible about it. I don't think the Robinsons are silly, but Louise and the other two are like children, and must be treated as such."

"Oh no," said Gwen, innocently, "I won't!" And she meant what she said. It was true that she had just hinted at something, perhaps she even used the word "ghost," to the housemaid that morning, but she had made her promise faithfully not to repeat what she had heard, so it was all right.

"We start at half-past ten," said Lady Dashwood.

Gwen said she would be punctual. Her face was full of mysterious and subdued pleasure when she looked into the breakfast-room to see if by any chance Mrs. Dashwood was still there. The girl's fancy was excited by the Warden's behaviour last night. She kept on thinking of his face in the lamp light. It looked very severe and yet so gentle. She was actually falling in love with him, so she said to herself. The Barber's ghost was no longer alarming, but something to recall with a thrill of interest, as it led on to the Warden. She was burning to talk about the Warden. She was so glad she had delivered her letter to the Warden. He would be simply obliged to speak some time to-day. How exciting! Now, was Mrs. Dashwood in the breakfast-room? Yes, there she was, standing in the window with a newspaper in her hand.

"Oh, good morning," said Gwen, brightly. "I must thank you for having been so awfully sweet to me last night. It was funny, wasn't it, my getting that fright? I really and truly was frightened, till Dr. Middleton came up and told me I needn't. Isn't he wonderful?" Here Gwen's voice sank into a confidential whisper.

Mrs. Dashwood said "Yes" in a lingering voice, and she seemed about to go.

"I do think he is the nicest man I have ever met," said Gwen hurriedly, "don't you? But then, of course, I have reason to think so, after last night. It must have looked queer, I mean to any one merely looking on. How I did sleep!" Then after a moment she said: "Don't you think he is very good-looking? Now, do tell me, Mrs. Dashwood! I promise you I won't repeat it."

"He is a very charming man," said May, "that is obvious."

"Wasn't it silly of me to think of the Barber's ghost—especially as it only appears when some disaster happens to the Warden? I mean that is the story. Now the Warden is perfectly well this morning, I particularly asked, though I knew he would be, of course. Now, if there had been a real ghost, he ought to die to-day, or perhaps to-morrow. Isn't it all funny?" Then, as there came another pause, Gwendolen added, "I suppose it couldn't mean that he might die in a week's time—or six months perhaps?" and her voice was a little anxious.

"Death isn't the only disaster," said May, "that can happen to a man."

"Don't you think it's about the worst?" said Gwen. "Worse even than losing lots of money. You see, if you are once dead, there you are! But I needn't bother—there was no ghost."

"No, there was no ghost," said Mrs. Dashwood, and she laid her paper down on a side table.

Gwen felt that she had not had a fair chance of a talk. In the absence of anybody really young it was some comfort to talk to Mrs. Dashwood. She much preferred Mrs. Dashwood to Lady Dashwood. Lady Dashwood was sometimes "nasty," since that letter affair. Fortunately she had not been able to do anything nasty. She had not been able to make the Warden nasty.

Gwen stood watching May, and then said in a low voice to detain her: "I wish mother would come!"

"Do you expect her?" asked May, turning round and facing the girl.

"I do and I don't and I do," said Gwen. "That sounds jolly vague, I know, and please don't even say to Lady Dashwood that I mentioned it. You won't, will you? It jumped out of my mouth. Things do sometimes."

May smiled a little.

"Mother is so plucky," said Gwen; "I'm sure you'd like her—you really would, and she would like you. She doesn't by any means like everybody. She's very particular, but I think she would like you."

May smiled again, and this gave Gwen complete confidence.

"Our relations, you know, have really been a bit stingy," she said. "Too bad, isn't it, and there's been a bother about my education. Of course, mother needn't have sent me to school at all, only she's so keen on doing all she can for me, much more keen than our relations have been. Why, would you believe it, Uncle Ted, my father's youngest brother, who is a parson in Essex, has been saving! What I mean is that the Scotts ain't a bit well off—isn't it hard lines? You see I tell you all this, I wouldn't to anybody else. Well, Uncle Ted had saved for years for his only son—for Eton and Oxford: I don't think he'd ever given mother a penny. Wasn't that rather hard luck on mother?"

May said "Oh!" in a tone that was neutral.

"Well, but I'll explain," said Gwen, eagerly, "and you'll see. When poor Ted was killed, almost at once in the war, there was all the Oxford money still there. Mother knew about it, and said it couldn't be less than five hundred pounds, and might be more. And mother just went to them and spoke ever so nicely about poor Ted being killed—it was such horrid luck on Uncle Ted—and then she just asked ever so quietly if she might borrow some of the Oxford money, as there would be no use for it now. She didn't even ask them to give it, she only asked to borrow, and she thought they would like it to be used for the last two years of my school, it would be such a nice thought for them. And would you believe it, they were quite angry and refused! So mother thought they ought to know how mean it was of them. She is so plucky! So she told them that they had no sympathy with anybody but themselves, and didn't care about any Scott except their own Ted, who was dead and couldn't come to life again, however much they hoarded. Mother does say things so straight. She is so sporting! But wasn't it horrid for her to have to do it?"

May had gradually moved to the door ready to go out. Now she opened it.

So this was the young woman to whom the Warden had bound himself, and this was his future mother-in-law!

May left the breakfast-room abruptly and without a word.

She mounted the stairs swiftly. She wanted to be alone. As the servants were still moving about upstairs, she went into the drawing-room.

There was no one there but that living portrait of Stephen Langley, and he was looking at her across the wide space between them with an almost imperceptible sneer—so she thought.