Mrs. Harding had not succeeded in finding some chance of "casually" asking Mrs. Potten to have tea with her, but she had secured the Dashwoods. That was something. Mrs. Harding's drawing-room was spacious and looked out on the turreted walls of Christ Church. The house witnessed to Mrs. Harding's private means.

"We have got Lady Dashwood in the further room," she murmured to some ladies who arrived punctually from the Sale in St. Aldates, "and we nearly got the Warden of Kings."

The naÏvetÉ of Mrs. Harding's remark was quite unconscious, and was due to that absence of humour which is the very foundation stone of snobbishness.

"But the Warden is coming to fetch his party home," added Mrs. Harding, cheerfully.

Harding, too, was in good spirits. He was all patriotism and full of courteous consideration for his friends. So heartened was he that, after tea, at the suggestion of Bingham, he sat down to the piano to sing a duet with his wife. This was also a sort of touching example of British respectability with a dash of "go" in it!

Bingham was turning over some music.

"What shall it be, Tina?" asked Harding, whose repertoire was limited.

"This!" said Bingham, and he placed on the piano in front of Hording the duet from "Becket."

The room was crowded, khaki prevailing. "All the women are workers," Mrs. Harding had explained.

Gwendolen Scott was there, of course, still conscious of the ten-shilling note in the pocket of her coat. Mrs. Potten had gone, along with the Buckinghamshire collar, just as if neither had ever existed. Boreham was there, talking to one or two men in khaki, because he could not get near May Dashwood. She had now somehow got wedged into a corner over which Bingham was standing guard.

At the door the Warden had just made his appearance. He had got no further than the threshold, for he saw his hostess about to sing and would not advance to disturb her.

From where he stood May Dashwood could be plainly seen, and Bingham stooping with his hands on his knees, making an inaudible remark to her.

The remark that gentleman was actually making was: "You'll have a treat presently—the greatest surprise in your life."

Mrs. Harding stood behind her husband. She was dressed with strict regard to the last fashion. Dressing in each fashion as it came into existence she used to call quite prettily, "the simple truth about it." Since the war she called it frankly and seriously "the true economy." Her face usually expressed a superior self-assurance, and now it wore also a look of indulgent amiability. Her whole appearance suggested a happy peacock with its tail spread, and the surprise which Bingham predicted came when she opened her mouth and, instead of emitting screams in praise of diamonds and of Paris hats (as one would have expected), she piped in a small melancholy voice the following pathetic inquiry—

And then came Harding's growling baritone, avoiding any mention of cigars or cocktails and making answer—

Mrs. Harding—

Mr. Harding—

Bingham was convulsed with inward laughter. May tried to smile a little—at the incongruity of the singers and the words they sang; but her thoughts were all astray. The Warden was here—so near!

No one else was in the least amused. Boreham was plainly worried, and was staring through his eyeglass at Bingham's back, behind which May Dashwood was half obliterated. Gwendolen Scott had only just caught sight of the Warden and had flushed up, and wore an excited look on her face. She was glancing at him with furtive glances—ready to bow. Now she caught his eye and bowed, and he returned the bow very gravely.

Lady Dashwood was leaning back in her chair listening with resigned misery.

May looked straight before her, past Bingham's elbow. She knew the song from Becket well. Words in the song were soon coming that she dreaded, because of the Warden standing there by the door.

The words came—

She raised her eyes to the Warden. She could see his profile. It looked noble among the faces around him, as he stood with his head bent, apparently very much aloof, absorbed in his own thoughts.

He, of all men she had ever met, ought to have understood "love that is born of the deep," and did not. He turned his head slightly and met her eyes for the flash of a second. It was the look of a man who takes his last look.

She did not move, but she grasped the arms of her chair and heard no more of the music but sounds, vaguely drumming at her ears, without meaning.

She did not even notice Bingham's movement, the slow cautious movement with which he turned to see what had aroused her emotion. When he knew, he made a still more cautious and imperceptible movement away from her; the movement of a man who discerns that he had made a step too far and wishes to retrace that step without being observed.

May did not even notice that the song was over and that people were talking and moving about.

"We are going, May," said Lady Dashwood. "Mr. Boreham has to go and hunt for a ten-shilling note that Mrs. Potten thinks she dropped at Christ Church. She has just sent me a letter about it. She can't remember the staircase. In any case we have to go and pick up our purchases there, so we are all going together."

"She's always dropping things," said Boreham, who had taken the opportunity of coming up and speaking to May. "She may have lost the note anywhere between here and Norham Gardens. She's incorrigible."

The little gathering was beginning to melt away. Harding and Bingham had hurried off on business, and there was nobody now left but Boreham and the party from King's and Mrs. Harding, who was determined to help in the search for Mrs. Potten's lost note.

"Miss Scott is coming back with me—to help wind up things at the Sale," said Mrs. Harding, "and on our way we will go in and help you."

Gwendolen's first impulse, when Mrs. Potten's note was discussed, was to get behind somebody else so as not to be seen. Would Mr. Harding and Mr. Bingham remember about the extra note? Probably—so her second impulse was to say aloud: "I wonder if it's the note I quite forgot to give to Mrs. Potten? I've got it somewhere." Alas! this impulse was short-lived. Ever since she had put the note in her pocket, the mental image of an umbrella had been before her eyes. She had begun to consider that mental umbrella as already a real umbrella and hers. She walked about already, in imagination, under it. She might have planned to spend money that had fallen into her hands on sweets. That would have been the usual thing; but no, she was going to spend it on something very useful and necessary. That ten shillings, in fact, so carelessly flung aside by Mrs. Potten, was going to be spent in a way very few girls would think of. To spend it on an umbrella was wonderfully virtuous and made the whole affair a sort of duty.

The umbrella, in short, had become now part of Gwendolen's future. Virtue walking with an umbrella. Without that umbrella there would be a distinct blank in Gwendolen's life!

If she obeyed her second impulse on the moment, that umbrella would never become hers. She would for ever lose that umbrella. But neither Mr. Harding nor Mr. Bingham seemed to think of her, or her note. They were already rushing off to lectures or chapels or something. The impulse died!

So the poor silly child pretended to search in the rooms at Christ Church with no less energy than Mrs. Harding and Mrs. Dashwood, and much more thoroughly than Boreham, who did nothing more than put up the lights and stand about looking gloomy.

The Warden was walking slowly with Lady Dashwood on the terrace below when the searchers came out announcing that no note could be found.

Boreham's arms were full of parcels, and these were distributed among the Warden, Lady Dashwood, and Mrs. Dashwood.

Mrs. Harding said "good-bye" outside the great gate.

"I shall bring Miss Scott home, after the work is over," she said; and Gwendolen glanced at the Warden in the fading afternoon light with some confidence, for was not the affair of the note over? What more could happen? She could not be certain whether he looked at her or not. He moved away the moment that Mrs. Harding had ceased speaking. He bowed, and in another moment was talking to Mr. Boreham.

May Dashwood had slipped her hand into her aunt's arm, making it obvious to Boreham that he and the Warden must walk on ahead, or else walk behind. They walked on ahead.

"I've got to fetch Mrs. Potten from Eliston's," he said fretfully, as he walked beside the Warden. All four went along in silence. They passed Carfax. There, a little farther on, was Mrs. Potten just at the shop's door, looking out keenly through her glasses, peering from one side of the street to the other.

She came forward to meet them, evidently charmed at seeing the Warden.

"I'm afraid I made a great fuss over that note. Did you find it, Bernard?"

Boreham felt too cross to answer.

"We didn't," said May Dashwood. "I'm sorry!"

"No, we couldn't find it," said Lady Dashwood.

"You really couldn't," repeated Mrs. Potten. "Well, I wonder—— But how kind of you!"

Now, Mrs. Potten rarely saw the Warden, and this fact made her prize him all the more. Mrs. Potten's weakness for men was very weak for the Warden, so much so that for the moment she forgot the loss of her note, and—thinking of Wardens—burst into a long story about the Heads of colleges she had known personally and those she had not known personally.

Her assumption that Heads of colleges were of any importance was all the more distasteful to Boreham because May Dashwood was listening.

"Come along, Mrs. Potten," he said crossly; "we shall have to have the lamps lit if we wait any longer."

But they were not her lamps that would have to be lit, burning her oil, and Mrs. Potten released the Warden with much regret.

"So the poor little note was never found," she said, as she held out her hand for good-bye. "I know it's a trifle, but in these days everything is serious, everything! And after I had scribbled off my note to you from Eliston's I thought I might have given Miss Scott two ten-shilling notes instead of one, just by mistake, and that she hadn't noticed, of course."

"I thought of that," said Lady Dashwood, "and I asked Mrs. Harding; but she said that she had got the correct notes—thirty shillings."

"Well, good-bye," said Mrs. Potten. "I am sorry to have troubled everybody, but in war time one has to be careful. One never knows what may happen. Strange things have happened and will happen. Don't you think so, Warden?"

"Stranger than perhaps we think of," said the Warden, and he raised his hat to go.

"Come, Bernard," said Mrs. Potten, "I must try and tear you away. Good-bye, good-bye!" and even then she lingered and looked at the Warden.

"Good-bye, Marian," said Lady Dashwood, firmly.

"I am afraid you are very tired," whispered May in her aunt's ear, as they turned up the Broad.

"Rather tired," said Lady Dashwood. "Too tired to hear Marian's list of names, nothing but names!"

They walked on a few steps, and then there came a sound of whirring in the sky. It was a sound new to Oxford, but which had lately become frequent. All three looked up. An aeroplane was skimming low over steeples, towers, and ancient chimney stacks, going home to Port Meadow, like a bird going home to roost at the approach of night. It was going safely. The pilot was only learning, playing with air, overcoming it with youthful keenness and light-heartedness. They could see his little solitary figure sitting at the helm. Later on he would play no more; the air would be full of glory, and horror—over in France.

The Warden sighed.

When they reached the Lodgings they went into the gloom of the dark panelled hall. The portraits on the walls glowered at them. The Warden put up the lights and looked at the table for letters, as if he expected something. There was a wire for him; more business, but not unexpected.

"I have to go to Town again," he said. "A meeting and other education business."

"Ah!" said Lady Dashwood. She caught at the idea, and her eyes followed the figure of May Dashwood walking upstairs. When May turned out of sight she said: "Do you mean now?"

"No, to-morrow early," he said. "And I shall be back on Saturday."

Lady Dashwood seated herself on a couch; her letters were in her hand, but she did not open them. Her eyes were fixed on her brother.

"Can you manage somehow so that I can speak to Gwendolen alone?" he asked. "I am dining in Hall, but I shall be back by half-past nine."

Lady Dashwood felt her cheeks tingle. "Yes, I will manage it, if it is inevitable." She dwelt lingeringly upon the word "inevitable."

"Thank you," said the Warden, and he turned and walked slowly upstairs. Very heavily he walked, so Lady Dashwood thought, as she sat listening to his footsteps. Of course it was inevitable. If vows are forgotten, promises are broken, there is an end to "honour," to "progress," to everything worth living for!

At the drawing-room he paused; the door was wide open, and he could see May Dashwood standing near one of the windows pulling her gloves off. She turned.

"I have to be in town early to-morrow and shall not return till the following day, Saturday," he said, coming up slowly to where she was standing.

She glanced up at him.

"This is the second time I have had to go away since you came, but it is a time when so much has to be considered and discussed, matters relating to the future of education, and of the universities, and with the future of Oxford. Things have suddenly changed; it is a new world that we live in to-day, a new world." Then he added bitterly, "Such as was the morrow of the Crucifixion."

He glanced away from her and rested his eyes on the window. The curtains had not yet been drawn and the latticed panes were growing dim. The dull grey sky behind the battlements of the roof opposite showed no memory of sunset.

"Of course you have to go away," said May, softly, and she too looked out at the dull sky now darkening into night.

Should she now tell him that she had kept her word, that she had not seen the cathedral because she had not been alone. She had had a strong desire to tell him when it was impossible to do so. Now, when she had only to say the words for he was there, close beside her, she could not speak. Perhaps he wouldn't care whether she had kept her word—and yet she knew that he did care.

They stood together for a moment in silence.

"And you were not able to go with me to the cathedral," he said, turning and looking at her face steadily.

May coloured as she felt his eyes upon her, but she braced herself to meet his question as if it was a matter about which they cared nothing.

"I didn't want to waste your time," she said, and she drew her gloves through her hand and moved away.

"Bingham," he said, "knows more than I do, perhaps more than any man in Oxford, about mediÆval architecture."

"Ah yes," said May, and she walked slowly towards the fireplace.

"And he will have shown you everything," he persisted.

May was now in front of the portrait, though she did not notice it.

"I didn't go into the cathedral," she said.

The Warden raised his head as if throwing off some invisible burden. Then he moved and came and stood near her—also facing the portrait. But neither noticed the large luminous eyes fixed upon them, visible even in the darkening room.

"I suppose one ought not to be critical of a drawing-room song," said the Warden, and his voice now was changed.

May moved her head slightly towards him, but did not meet his eyes.

"I was inclined," he said, "but then I am by trade a college tutor, to criticise one line of Tennyson's verse."

She knew what he meant. "What line do you object to?" she asked, and the line seemed to be already dinning in her ears.

He quoted the line, pronouncing the words with a strange emphasis—

"Yes?" said May.

"It is a pretty sentiment," he said. "I suppose we ought to accept it as such."

"Oh!" said May, and her voice lingered doubtfully over the word.

"Have we any right to expect so much, or fear so much," said the Warden, "from the circumstances of life?"

May turned her head away and said nothing.

"Why demand that life shall be made so easy?" Here he paused again. "Some of us," he went on, "want to be converted, in the Evangelical sense; in other words, some of us want to be given a sudden inspiring illumination, an irresistible motive for living the good life, a motive that will make virtue easy."

May looked down into the fire and waited for him to go on.

"Some of us demand a love that will make marriage easy, smooth for our temper, flattering to our vanity. Some demand"—and here there was a touch of passion in his voice that made May's heart heavy and sick—"they demand that it should be made easy to be faithful."

And she gave no answer.

"Isn't it our business to accept the circumstances of life, love among them, and refuse either to be shaped by them or shattered by them? But you will accuse me of being hyper-critical at a tea-party, of arguing on ethics when I should have been thinking of—of nothing particular."

This was his Apologia. After this there would be silence. He would be Gwendolen's husband. May tried to gather up all her self-possession.

"You don't agree with me?" he asked to break her obstinate silence.

She could hear Robinson coming in. He put up the lights, and out of the obscurity flashed the face of the portrait almost to the point of speech.

"Do you mean that one ought and can live in marriage without help and without sympathy?" she asked, and her voice trembled a little.

He answered, "I mean that. May I quote you lines that you probably know, lines of a more strenuous character than that line from 'Becket.'" And he quoted—

They could hear the swish of the heavy curtains as Robinson pulled them over the windows.

"And yet——" she said. Here a queer spasm came in her throat. She was moving towards the open door, for she felt that she could not bear to hear any more. He followed her.

"And yet——?" he persisted.

"I only mean," she said, and she compelled her voice to be steady, "what is the glory of the Lord? Is it anything but love—love of other people?"

She went through the open door slowly and turned to the shallow stairs that led to her bedroom. She could not hear whether he went to his library or not. She was glad that she did not meet anybody in the corridor. The doors were shut.

She locked her door and went up to the dressing-table. The little oval picture case was lying there. She laid her hand upon it, but did not move it. She stood, pressing her fingers upon it. Then she moved away. Even the memory of the past was fading from her life; her future would contain nothing—to remember.

She moved about the room. Wasn't duty enough to fill her life? Wasn't it enough for her to know that she was helping in her small way to build up the future of the race? Why could she not be content with that? Perhaps, when white hairs came and wrinkles, and her prime was past, she might be content! But until then....