SIR ARTHUR was back again on Thursday, alertly conscious of a half promise, and he intended to put it to the test while he and Camelia rode together in the afternoon. The party was made up: Mrs. Fox-Darriel, Gwendolen Holt, Sir Harry, and another young man—but Camelia did not go. The horses were already before the door, and she, fully equipped in riding costume, engaged before her mirror on the final details of veil and gloves, when Perior rode up; Camelia saw him through the window, and heard him decline to join their party, as he had come for Mary. Mary was not a good rider, nor could she be urged beyond the dullest trot, and Perior’s refusal was no doubt on her account. Poor Alceste! Condemned to Mary for a whole afternoon! In a rapid change of project Camelia dashed out of her habit and into her prettiest white dress, sent down a note to Sir Arthur pleading sudden headache, and commanding him to go without her, saw the five depart obediently, and placidly descended to capture Perior. Mary was getting ready; Camelia, as she passed her room, saw her sewing a button on a glove, her habit laid in readiness on the bed. Camelia would have liked her ride; it was only from the impulsive wish for ten or fifteen minutes with Perior that she had sacrificed it, and she saw with satisfaction that Mary would take quite that time.

“Well, how do you do?” she said, finding him as usual in the morning-room, “I think we have got him,” she added, picking up the threads of their last conversation.

“That is Rodrigg, of course,” said Perior, looking with a pleasure he could not conceal at her charming appearance. He felt for a moment like telling her that in that dress she was bewitchingly pretty, but checked the impulse with some surprise at it.

“Yes, I argued out the whole third clause with him yesterday,” said Camelia, smiling her happiest smile, for she was quite conscious of those unspoken words.

“Dear me!”

“He seemed impressed—though you are not. Sit down.”

“He seemed what he was not, no doubt—I haven’t the faculty.” Perior spoke quite good-temperedly. Indeed, Camelia’s political manoeuvres did not displease him—consoled him in a sense. There was a pretty folly about them quite touching, and her earnestness seemed to vouch for some real feeling.

“Why should you imagine that he pretends?” she asked, taking the place beside him on the sofa and leaning forward, her arms on her knees.

“The man wants to please you,” said Perior, looking at her white hands hanging idly together. He wondered again whether egotism or a real fondness for Arthur moved her.

The long delay of the engagement excited and made him nervous. It had usually been so easy to see through Camelia, and he did not like the perplexity. Still, the thought that she hesitated pleased him; she would accept Arthur, doubtlessly, but at least she would imagine that she cared for him. Camelia had gained some moral value in his eyes from that pause.

“Why should you imagine that he pretends?” she asked, feeling delightedly that the atmosphere was much less chilling than usual.

“The man wants to please you.”

“Well, and what then?”

“He expects to marry you.”

“Nonsense!” she said with a laugh of truest sincerity.

“Tell him that you are engaged to Arthur, and see.” Perior’s curiosity made that little probe, and the eyes of both showed a mutual self-consciousness; both thought of the last scene in the morning-room.

“I can’t make the experiment yet, even to please you,” said Camelia, satisfied that her cheeks showed no rising color. “Mr. Rodrigg is really attached to me. He would do a great deal for me.”

“Your smile for all reward.”

“Exactly.”

“You are a goose, Camelia.”

But she was pleasing him; her conceit amused him almost tenderly, and he laughed.

“You think me fatuous, no doubt,” said Camelia, laughing too.

“Yes, rather fatuous. Not as clear-sighted as usual.”

“Mr. Rodrigg knows that I could never marry him,” said Camelia more gravely; “he can only hope for my smile, and, if he helps me through, I shall always smile.”

“I don’t credit Mr. Rodrigg with the faintest flavor of such humility.”

Camelia’s smile, confidently unconvinced, now shifted to a humorous little grimace. “He never really hoped. As though I could have married a man with a nose like that!”

“I maintain that he does so hope—despite his nose; an excellently honest nose it is too.”

“So broad at the tip! as though he had flattened it against adverse forces all his life. It is a plebeian trait, an inheritance from money-getting ancestors who held theirs conscientiously to the grindstone.”

“Mine should show the peculiarity,” and Perior rubbed it, “it has been ground persistently.”

“Ah—a merely acquired tendency; besides, you are not going to ask me to marry you—so you may carry your nose fearlessly.” Camelia’s eye, despite the light audacity of her tone, fixed him with a certain alert hardness.

Perior bowed, his hand on his heart. “Thanks for the intimation. I shall carry it quite fearlessly, I assure you.”

Camelia laughed. “But I like your nose,” said she, leaning towards him; and, very much as a kitten gives a roguish paw-tap, she drew a finger briskly down the feature in question.

Perior grew a little red, and drew back rather sharply.

“What a staid person you are,” said Camelia, quite unabashed; “you don’t take a compliment gracefully, Alceste; not that it was a compliment, exactly, since your nose is not at all handsome; a poor thing but to my taste. I like its dominant ruggedness, and that nice lift in the bridge.”

“Well, Camelia, I came to take Mary out riding, you know,” said Perior, who still showed signs of uneasiness under her scrutiny.

“Yes, I know; you are so good to Mary. She is getting ready.”

Camelia contemplated Perior’s paternal relation towards Mary most unsuspectingly, yet she really did not like it. She could not like anything that withdrew a very important tributary from the river-like receptivity of her existence. Mary’s narrow channel was quite unmeet for such a complimentary contribution, and Camelia was sincerely convinced of the mere charitableness of Perior’s attitude. Then, above all, Perior was her own especial property; Mary might profit by him when she did not feel the want of him, and this afternoon she wanted him—very much, as it now struck her. To have sacrificed her ride for this bare ten minutes had been hardly worth while. She had not looked beyond the impulse of the moment, and the lonely hours stretched in long inconsistency before her. She thought of them now with some surprised dismay, and her eyes, still contemplating Perior’s nose, grew vague with conjecture. Perior certainly, despite his latter severity, would rather spend his afternoon with her than with Mary. He could not own to it, of course, nor would she force him to such an issue; but it might be managed—pleasantly for every one, for all three. Camelia’s life, so wide in its all embracing objectivity, had little time for self-analysis, little time therefore for putting herself in other people’s places. Her lack of sympathy was grounded on a lack of all self-knowledge. Therefore her mind turned the matter quickly in the direction that best suited the desire of the moment, good and bad being to Camelia external facts that either pleased or displeased herself, and she said without one inner compunction, “Shall I hurry her up? And I must see that she puts her hat on properly. Mary has an unerring instinct for the unbecoming.”

“Has she?” said Perior, in the tone that Camelia well understood as being altogether unencouraging and perhaps disgusted. “Don’t hurry her. I can wait.”

“See how unkindly I dress my best impulses,” said Camelia, smiling. “I really want to help her, and to make her smart and tidy. A few touches of my fingers about Mary’s unfurnished forehead, and her face assumes a certain grace and prettiness. Alceste, you must not take my flippancy au grand sÉrieux—you are in danger of becoming ridiculous, Alceste, I warn you of it.” She had certainly succeeded in making “Alceste” smile, and with a reassured and reassuring wave of the hand she left him, delighted with her own ability for forcing him to swallow her naughtinesses—for swallow them he must; she would feign nothing for him; she would exaggerate even the defects he saw so solemnly. She was quite sure now that she must not be left alone, and that Perior must spend the afternoon with her. She ran upstairs quickly, conscious of how prettily she sprang from stair to stair, of how charmingly with its silk and muslin rustle her white dress swayed about her, conscious even of the distinguished elegance of her white hand gliding up the hand rail; for Camelia had always time for these Æsthetic notes, and her grace, her dress, and her hand were so many reasons for keeping Perior to admire them. Mary was quite ready, and looking really nice; a pretty color, and the dull fairness of her hair smoothed neatly beneath her hat.

Camelia did not think of Mary as an obstacle to be callously pushed aside; but as an insignificance rather, quite as well satisfied with the barrel-organ equivalent she would offer, as with the orchestra that Camelia intended to keep for herself, since she had the supreme right of appreciation.

Indeed she hardly thought of Mary at all, as she acted surprise on the threshold.

“Were you going with them? They are gone, dear!”

Mary turned from the mirror, her habit skirt falling from her arm; on her face a dismal astonishment, that Camelia, absorbed in the mental completion of her arrangement, hardly noticed.

“Sir Arthur, Gwendolen, the others—you were going out with them.” She scarcely knew why she hedged her position with this pretence of ignorance. But Mary’s face brightened happily.

“Oh no, Mr. Perior is going with me. You haven’t seen him, then. He came for me.”

Camelia had the barrel-organ all in readiness, and prepared to roll it forward without delay.

“Oh! did he? Well, Mary, I have another plan for you this afternoon, you will like it just as well, I know. I promised Mrs. Grier to make that charitable round of visits to her poor people with her this afternoon. We were to go to the almshouses, and I have a basket of sweets for the children in Copley, and now I must give up going because of this dreadful headache, and knowing that nothing would please you more——.”

It was quite true that Camelia had made the appointment with Mrs. Grier, but on agreeing to go out riding with Sir Arthur, she had intended to ride to Mrs. Grier’s house and make charming apologies—of which Sir Arthur’s tyrannous monopoly would bear the brunt. By her present plan both Mary and Mrs. Grier would be pleased. She congratulated herself on her thoughtful dexterity. Mary liked Mrs. Grier so much, liked almshouses and poor children, and especially liked the distributing of goodies among them; Mary gained everything by the little shuffle, and she was not at all prepared for a certain stiffening and hardening in her cousin’s expression. “It is a lovely basket, and tea and curates galore,” she added, turning on the final roulade of the barrel-organ, rather wondering, for the coldness of Mary’s look was apparent, though Camelia did not divine the underlying confusion.

Mary was well trained in self-abnegation, but she turned her eyes away without replying for a moment: “Could you not send word to Mrs. Grier?” she asked.

Camelia felt quite a shock of surprise at the tone, and a sense of injury that hardened her in advance against possible opposition.

“Oh, it is too late, my dear—she would be terribly disappointed—and the children—and the tea prepared for me—the people invited. Why, Mary, don’t you want to go?”

“I wanted the ride,” said Mary in a low voice; and growing very red she added, “I am afraid Mr. Perior will think me rude.”

“Oh, I will make your excuses!” Camelia, in all the impetus of her desire, was much vexed by this ungrateful doggedness.

“Mr. Perior and I could ride over and explain,” Mary added.

Camelia had never met in her cousin such opposition, and a certain dryness mingled with the real grievance in her voice as she said—

“Is your heart so set on this ride, Mary? Mr. Perior will take you out again, and you know that the pleasure is always rather one-sided, since he particularly likes a good gallop across country. It isn’t quite like you, I think, to disappoint a friend like Mrs. Grier—you are so fond of Mrs. Grier, I thought.”

During this speech Mary’s face grew crimson. Setting her lips, she began quickly to draw off her gloves; Camelia felt suddenly a sense of discomfort.

“You will enjoy it, I am sure, Mary.”

Mary made no reply, and silently unbuttoned her coat.

“I beg of you, Mary, not to go if you are going to feel aggrieved about it. I do not see what I am to do. I thought it would be quite a treat for you.”

“Thanks, Camelia.”

“You will go, then?”

“Oh yes, Camelia.”

Camelia felt more and more uncomfortable; her object was gained and she could hardly relinquish it, but she wanted to hurry away from the unpleasing contemplation of this badly-tempered instrument. She lingered, however.

“You are right to keep on that straw hat—it is very becoming to you. Here, let me draw your hair forward a little. Now you will make conquests, Mary! The basket is in my dressing-room on the little table. Shall I order the dog-cart for you?”

“Thanks very much, Camelia.”

“Mary, you make me feel—horridly!”

Camelia could not check that impulse. “Do you mind? You see that I can’t get out of it; you see that it wouldn’t do—don’t you? I hope you don’t really mind.”

“Oh no; I was a little disappointed, it was very thoughtless—very ungrateful.” The conventional humility rasped Camelia’s discontent. “And you will tell Mr. Perior?—you will explain?”

“Yes, yes, dear.”

Mary was now so completely divested of riding attire that Camelia left her with the assurance of having effected her purpose most thoroughly. But alas! it had rather lost its savor. As she slowly descended the stairs she realized that the game, though worth the candle, perhaps, had been decidedly spoiled by the candle’s unmanageable smoking and guttering. Mary’s decided sullenness had been quite an unlooked-for feature in the little scheme; it had involved her in a web of petty falsities for which Perior would have scorned her.

Remembering that to account comfortably for Mary’s absence she must lie to him, she came to a sudden standstill outside the door of the morning-room. How badly she had managed everything! She did not want to lie to him. Why had not Mary been delighted to go—as she should have been? Only the thought of Mary’s general disagreeableness fortified her a little.

Perior was still sitting on the sofa, abstractedly staring at the floor, as she entered.

“Oh, Camelia,” he said disappointedly.

“Only Camelia.” She felt herself, to her dismay and disgust, growing red.

“Where is Mary?”

“I have come to make Mary’s excuses. She can’t go—is so sorry.” With an effort she regained her composure. After all, he would never dream that to be with him she had sent off Mary, and the sudden seeing of the matter in that absolving light relieved her; it was rather to her credit, so seen, and her fondness for Perior really touching.

“Can’t go?” he repeated staring. “Why she sent me word that she would be ready in twenty minutes.”

“She had forgotten an engagement with Mrs. Grier; I was to have gone—” (it was as well to be as near the truth as possible), “but couldn’t because of my headache—I have a horrible headache. I would have put her off, but the engagement was one of a sort Mary especially likes, a round of village visits to the almshouses, and poor children, and afterwards tea and curates galore—” Camelia realized that with a confused uninventiveness she was repeating her own words to Mary. “Mary likes tea and likes curates,” she went on, pushed even further by that sense of confusion—she had never told her old friend so many lies, “and the curates like Mary, and no doubt one day she will see her way to making a choice among them.” Her voice was smooth, and certainly left no cranny for suspicion, yet Perior still stared.

“What a vacuous look!” laughed Camelia, wishing that she had not been forced to cross quite so many Rubicons.

“I feel sure that Mary has been sacrificing herself—as usual,” he said slowly.

“Sacrificing herself? Conceited man! Do you weigh yourself against half-a-dozen curates—reinforced by tea and sandwiches?”

“Mary likes our rides immensely—and I never saw any signs of a fondness for curates.”

“No, but a fondness for Mrs. Grier, almshouses, tea, curates, and the Lady Bountiful atmosphere combined.”

Perior looked absently out of the window; presently he said, “I don’t think she is looking over well—you know her father died of consumption.”

“Don’t; he was my uncle!” Camelia exclaimed. “Still, my chest is as sound as a drum.” She gave it a reassuring thump.

“That must be very comforting to you, personally, but is Mary’s?”

She looked at him candidly.

“You foolish, fussy old person! Mary is solidly, stolidly well; who could associate the lilies and languors of illness with Mary? You are trying to poetize Mary’s prose to worry me, but you can’t rhyme it, I assure you.”

“I don’t know about that!” Perior was again, for a moment, silent. “I don’t think Mary has a very gay time of it,” he said, speaking with a half nervous resolution, as though he had often wished to speak and kept back the words. “She doesn’t go out much with you in London, does she?”

Camelia did not like his tone, but she replied with lightness, “Not much, Mary is a home-keeping body. She is not exactly fitted for worldly gaieties, and she understands it perfectly.”

“How trying for Mary”—the nervousness was quite gone now—once he had broached a delicate subject Perior could handle it with little compunction.

“Mary is very happy, if you please. She adores me, and is devoted to Mamma. Mamma is certainly nicer to her than I am—that is an affair of temperament, for Mary does bore me tremendously—I think she knows that she does, but she adores me, since I don’t deserve it—the way of the world—a horrid place—I don’t deny it.”

“Happy Mary! allowed to adore your effulgence—but at a distance—since she bores you, and knows she does!” And over his collar Camelia could observe that Perior’s neck had grown red. She joined him at the window, and said, looking up at his face—

“Why do you force me to such speeches? I am not responsible for the inequalities of nature—though I recognize them so cold-bloodedly. The contrast does not hurt her, for she is a good, contented little soul, and then—for nature does give compensations—she has no keen susceptibilities;” she locked her hands on his shoulder, and smiling at him, “Come, you know that I am fond of Mary. You should have seen how prettily I arranged her hair to-day—it would have softened your heart towards me. Come, we are not going to quarrel again.”

Perior’s eye turned on her, certainly softened in expression, “By no means, I hope,” and he smiled a little, “especially as I must be off—since I have missed my ride.”

Camelia’s face at this unlooked-for consummation took on an expression of sincerest dismay.

“Going! you will leave me all alone! They have all gone!”

Perior laughed, looking at her now with the same touch of irrepressible pleasure she could usually count on arousing.

“Poor little baby! and it has a headache, too?”

“Yes, it has; please stay with it.”

She was quite sure that he wanted to stay; indeed, Camelia’s certainty of Perior’s fundamental fondness for her was an article of faith untouched by doubt.

“Very well, you want to show off your dress, I see.” Perior’s smile in its humoring coyness was charming; Camelia felt that she quite adored him when he so smiled at her. “A very pretty dress it is; I have been taking it in.”

“And we will have tea in the garden,” said Camelia, in tones of happy satisfaction, “and you will see how good I am—when you are good to me. And I’ll tell you all about the people who are coming—for I must have more of them—droves of them; in batches, artistic batches, ‘smart’ batches, intellectual batches, political batches. You and I will look at them.”

“Thanks; you don’t limit me to a batch then?”

They were still standing near the window, and she kept a hand on his shoulder, and looked at him now with the gravity that made her face so strange.

“No, dear Alceste, you know I don’t.”

He returned her look, smiling with a little constraint.

“We must be more together,” Camelia went on, “we must take up our studying. No, Mr. Rodrigg, I can’t walk with you this morning, I am reading the Agamemnon with Mr. Perior.” Camelia’s eyes, mouth, the delicately long lines of her cheek, quivered with the half malicious, half tender smile that tilted every curve and every shadow from calm to roguery.

“How Mr. Rodrigg will hate me, to be sure,” said Perior, who at that moment felt that he would like to kiss his bunch of primroses—an illusion of dewiness possessed him.

“And now for tea under the copper beech. And I will read to you. What shall I read? It will be quite like old days!”

“When we were young together,” said Perior, smiling at her so fondly that she felt deliciously reassured as to everything.

The gods always helped a young lady who helped herself. Such had been Camelia’s experience in life, even when she helped herself to other people’s belongings.

At all events, with hardly a qualm of conscience, Camelia enjoyed the afternoon she had wrested from poor Mary.

The tea-table was duly installed under the wide shade of the copper-beech. Perior carried out an armful of books and reviews from which to choose. They drank their tea and ate their bread and butter, and Camelia read aloud from the Revue des Deux Mondes. And it cannot be denied that Perior, sitting in the cool green shadow, listening to the perfect French accent, looking at the white figure sprinkled with the pale shifting gold that filtered through the leaves above them, enjoyed himself a great deal more than he would have done with Mary. Truly at times the way of transgressors is very easy.