Althea had not seen Gerald after the day that they came up from Merriston together. The breaking of their engagement was duly announced, and, with his little note to her, thanking her for her frankness and wishing her every happiness, Gerald and all things connected with him seemed to pass out of her life. She saw no more of the frivolous relations who were really serious, nor of the serious ones who were really frivolous. She did not even see Helen. Helen's engagement to Franklin had never been formally announced, and few, beyond her circle of nearest friends, knew of it; the fact that Franklin had now returned to his first love was not one that could, at the moment, be made appropriately public. But, of course, Helen had had to be told, not only that Franklin had gone from her, but that he had come back to Althea, and Althea wondered deeply how this news had been imparted. She had not felt strength to impart it herself. When she asked Franklin, very tentatively, about it, he said: 'That's all right, dear. I've explained. Helen perfectly understands.'

That it was all right seemed demonstrated by the little note, kind and sympathetic, that Helen wrote to her, saying that she did understand, perfectly, and was so glad for her and for Franklin, and that it was such a good thing when people found out mistakes in time. There was not a trace of grievance; Helen seemed to relinquish a good which, she recognised, had only been hers because Althea hadn't wanted it. And this was natural; how could one show one's grievance in such a case? Helen, above all, would never show it; and Althea was at once oppressed, and at the same time oddly sustained by the thought that she had, all inevitably, done her friend an injury. She lay awake at night, turning over in her mind Helen's present plight and framing loving plans for the future. She took refuge in such plans from a sense of having come to an end of things. To think of Helen, and of what, with their wealth, she and Franklin could do for Helen, seemed, really, her strongest hold on life. It was the brightest thing that she had to look forward to, and she looked forward to it with complete self-effacement. She saw the beautiful Italian villa where Helen should be the fitting centre, the English house where Helen, rather than she, should entertain. She felt that she asked nothing more for herself. She was safe, if one liked to put it so, and in that safety she felt not only her ambitions, but even any personal desires, extinguished. Her desire, now, was to unite with Franklin in making the proper background for Helen. But at the moment these projects were unrealisable; taste, as well as circumstance, required a pause, a lull. It was a relief—so many things were a relief, so few things more than merely that—to know that Helen was in the country somewhere, and would not be back for ten days or a fortnight.

Meanwhile, Miss Harriet Robinson, very grave but very staunch, sustained Althea through all the outward difficulties of her volte-face. Miss Robinson, of course, had had to be told of the reason for the volte-face, the fact that Althea had found, after all, that she cared more for Franklin Winslow Kane. It was in regard to the breaking of her engagement that Miss Robinson was staunch and grave; in regard to the new engagement, Althea saw that, though still staunch, she was much disturbed. Miss Robinson found Franklin hard to place, and found it hard to understand why Althea had turned from Gerald Digby to him. Franklin's millions didn't count for much with Miss Robinson, nor could she suspect them of counting for anything, where marriage was concerned, with her friend. She had not, indeed, a high opinion of the millionaire type of her compatriots. Her standards were birth and fashion, and poor Franklin could not be said to embody either of these claims. His mitigating qualities could hardly shine for Miss Robinson, who, accustomed to continually seeing and frequently evading the drab, dry, utilitarian species of her country-people, could not be expected to find in him the flavour of oddity and significance that his English acquaintance prized. Franklin didn't make any effort to place himself more favourably. He was very gentle and very attentive, and he followed all Althea's directions as to clothes and behaviour with careful literalness; but even barbered and tailored by the best that London had to offer, he seemed to sink inevitably into the discreetly effaced position that the American husband so often assumes behind his more brilliant mate, and Althea might have been more aware of this had she not been so sunken in an encompassing consciousness of her own obliteration. She felt herself nearer Franklin there, and the sense of relief and safety came most to her when she could feel herself near Franklin. It didn't disturb her, standing by him in the background, that Miss Robinson should not appreciate him. After all, deeper than anything, was the knowledge that Helen had appreciated him. Recede as far as he would from the gross foreground places, Helen's choice of him, Helen's love—for after a fashion, Helen must have loved him—gave him a final and unquestionable value. It was in this assurance of Helen's choice that she found a refuge when questionings and wonders came to drag her down to suffering again. There were many things that menaced the lull of safety, things she could not bear yet to look at. The sense of her own abandonment to weak and disingenuous impulses was one; another shadowed her unstable peace more darkly. Had Helen really minded losing Franklin—apart from his money? What had his value really been to her? What was she feeling and doing now? What was Gerald doing and feeling, and what did they both think or suspect of her? The answer to some of these questionings came to her from an unsuspected quarter. It was on a morning of chill mists and pale sunlight that Althea, free of Miss Robinson, walked down Grosvenor Street towards the park. She liked to go into the park on such mornings, when Miss Robinson left her free, and sit on a bench and abandon herself to remote, impersonal dreams. It was just as she entered Berkeley Square that she met Mrs. Mallison, that aunt of Gerald's who had struck her, some weeks ago, as so disconcerting, with her skilfully preserved prettiness and her ethical and metaphysical aspirations. This lady, furred to her ears, was taking out two small black pomeranians for an airing. She wore long pearl ear-rings, and her narrow, melancholy face was delicately rouged and powdered. Althea's colour rose painfully; she had seen none of Gerald's relatives since the severance. Mrs. Mallison, however, showed no embarrassment. She stopped at once and took Althea's hand and gazed tenderly upon her. Her manner had always afflicted Althea, with its intimations of some deep, mystical understanding.

'My dear, I'm so glad—to meet you, you know. How nice, how right you've been.' Mrs. Mallison murmured her words rather than spoke them and could pronounce none of her r's. 'I'm so glad to be able to tell you so. You're walking? Come with me, then; I'm just taking the dogs round the square. Do you love dogs too? I am sure you must. You have the eyes of the dog-lover. I don't know how I could live without mine; they understand when no one else does. I didn't write, because I think letters are such soulless things, don't you? They are the tombs of the spirit—little tombs for failed things—too often. I've thought of you, and felt for you—so much; but I couldn't write. And now I must tell you that I agree with you with all my heart. Love's the only thing in life, isn't it?' Mrs. Mallison smiled, pressing Althea's arm affectionately. Althea remembered to have heard that Mrs. Mallison had made a most determined mariage de convenance and had sought love in other directions; but, summoning what good grace she could, she answered that she, too, considered love the only thing.

'You didn't love him enough, and you found it out in time, and you told him. How brave; how right. And then—am I too indiscreet? but I know you feel we are friends—you found you loved some one else; the reality came and showed you the unreality. That enchanting Mr. Kane—oh, I felt it the moment I looked at him—there was an affinity between us, our souls understood each other. And so deliciously rich you'll be, not that money makes any difference, does it? but it is nice to be able to do things for the people one loves.'

Althea struggled in a maze of discomfort. Behind Mrs. Mallison's caressing intonations was something that perplexed her. What did Mrs. Mallison know, and what did she guess? She was aware, evidently, of her own engagement to Franklin and, no doubt, of Franklin's engagement to Helen and its breaking off. What did she know about the cause of that breaking off? Her troubled cogitations got no further, for Mrs. Mallison went on:

'And how happily it has all turned out—all round—hasn't it? How horrid for you and Mr. Kane, if it hadn't; not that you'd have had anything to reproach yourselves with—really—I know—because love is the only thing; but if Helen and Gerald had just been left plantÉs lÀ, it would have been harder, wouldn't it? I've been staying with them at the same house in the country and it's quite obvious what's happened. You knew from the first, no doubt; but of course they are saying nothing, just as you and Mr. Kane are saying nothing. They didn't tell me, but I guessed at once. And the first thing I thought was: Oh—how happy—how perfect this makes it for Miss Jakes and Mr. Kane. They've all found out in time.'

Althea grew cold. She commanded her voice. 'Helen? Gerald?' she said. 'Haven't you mistaken? They've always been the nearest friends.'

'Oh no—no,' smiled Mrs. Mallison, with even greater brightness and gentleness, 'I never mistake these things; an affair of the heart is the one thing that I always see. Helen, perhaps, could hide it from me; she is a woman and can hide things—Helen is cold too—I am never very sure of Helen's heart—of course I love her dearly, every one must who knows her; but she is cold, unawakened, the type that holds out the cheek, not the type that kisses. I confess that I love most the reckless, loving type; and I believe that you and I are unlike Helen there—we kiss, we don't hold out the cheek. But, no, I never would have guessed from Helen. It was Gerald who gave them both away. Poor, dear Gerald, never have I beheld such a transfigured being—he is radiantly in love, quite radiantly; it's too pretty to see him.'

The vision of Gerald, radiantly in love, flashed horridly for Althea. It was dim, yet bright, scintillating darkly; she could only imagine it in similes; she had never seen anything that could visualise it for her. The insufferable dogs, like tethered bubbles, bounded before them, constantly impeding their progress. Althea was thankful for the excuse afforded her by the tangling of her feet in the string to pause and stoop; she felt that her rigid face must betray her. She stooped for a long moment and hoped that her flush would cover her rigidity. It was when she raised herself that she saw suddenly in Mrs. Mallison's face something that gave her more than a suspicion. She didn't suspect her of cruelty or vulgar vengeance—Gerald's aunt was quite without rancour on the score of her jilting of him; but she did suspect, and more than suspect her—it was like the unendurable probing of a wound to feel it—of idle yet implacable curiosity, and of a curiosity edged, perhaps, with idle malice. She summoned all her strength. She smiled and shook her head a little. 'Faithless Gerald! So soon,' she said. 'He is consoled quickly. No, I never guessed anything at all.'

Mrs. Mallison had again passed her arm through hers and again pressed it. 'It is soon, isn't it? A sort of chassÉ-croisÉ. But how strange and fortunate that it should be soon—I know you feel that too.'

'Oh yes, of course, I feel it; it is an immense relief. But they ought to have told me,' Althea smiled.

'I wonder at that too,' said Mrs. Mallison. 'It is rather bad of them, I think, when they must know what it would mean to you of joy. When did it happen, do you suppose?'

Althea wondered. Wonders were devouring her.

'It happened with you quite suddenly, didn't it?' said Mrs. Mallison, who breathed the soft fragrance of her solicitude into Althea's face as she leaned her head near and pressed her arm closely.

'Quite suddenly,' Althea replied, 'that is, with me it was sudden. Franklin, of course, has loved me for a great many years.'

'So he was faithless too, for his little time?'

Althea's brain whirled. 'Faithless? Franklin?'

'I mean, while he made his mistake—while he thought he was in love with Helen.'

'It wasn't a question of that. It was to be a match of reason, and friendship—everybody knew,' Althea stammered.

'Was it?' said Mrs. Mallison with deep interest. 'I see, like yours and Gerald's.'

'Oh——' Althea was not able in her headlong course to do more than glance at the implications that whizzed past. 'Gerald and I made the mistake, I think; we believed ourselves in love.'

'Did you?' Mrs. Mallison repeated her tone of affectionate and brooding interest. 'What a strange thing the human heart is, isn't it?'

'Very, very strange.'

'How dear and frank of you to see it all as you do. And there are no more mistakes now,' said Mrs. Mallison. 'No one is reasonable and every one is radiant.'

'Every one is radiant and reasonable too, I hope,' said Althea. Her head still whirled as she heard herself analysing for Mrs. Mallison's correction these sanctities of her life. Odious, intolerable, insolent woman! She could have burst into tears as she walked beside her, held by her, while her hateful dogs, shrilly barking, bounded buoyantly around them.

'It's dear of you too, to tell me all about it,' said Mrs. Mallison. 'Have you seen Helen yet? She is just back.'

'No, I've not seen her.'

'You will meet? I am sure you will still be friends—two such real people as you are.'

'Of course we shall meet. Helen is one of my dearest friends.'

'I see. It is so beautiful when people can rise above things. You make me very happy. Don't tell Helen what I've told you,' Mrs. Mallison with gentle gaiety warned her. 'I knew—in case you hadn't heard—that it would relieve you so intensely to hear that she and Gerald were happy, in spite of what you had to do to them. But it would make Helen cross with me if she knew I'd told you when she hadn't. I'm rather afraid of Helen, aren't you? I'm sure she'll give Gerald dreadful scoldings sometimes. Poor, dear Gerald!' Mrs. Mallison laughed reminiscently. 'Never have I beheld such a transfigured being. I didn't think he had it in him to be in love to such an extent. Oh, it was all in his face—his eyes—when he looked at her.'

Yes, malicious, malicious to the point of vulgarity; that was Althea's thought as, like an arrow released from long tension, she sped away, the turn of the square once made and Mrs. Mallison and her dogs once more received into the small house in an adjacent street. Tears were in Althea's eyes, hot tears, of fury, of humiliation, and—oh, it flooded over her—of bitterest sorrow and yearning. Gerald, radiant Gerald—lost to her for ever; not even lost; never possessed. And into the sorrow and humiliation, poisonous suspicions crept. When did it happen? Where was she? What had been done to her? She must see; she must know. She hailed a hansom and was driven to old Miss Buchanan's house in Belgravia.