For the first time West hesitated in his dealing with a woman. Partly it was that Marian puzzled as well as attracted him, partly it was that the precipitancy of his marriage with Agatha and its failure gave him pause before he took the step of trying to win Marian away from Maddison. He admired her, but he was by no means sure that the admiration was mutual; indeed part of her attraction for him was that she had not in any way, so far as he could see, endeavored to bring him to her side. Hitherto the women whom he had met had made little effort to conceal the fact that his money rendered him a welcome suitor.

It was his custom every morning to walk in Hyde Park before going to business; it was usually the only hour in the day which was not interrupted and in which, therefore, he could think clearly. This mental constitutional was broken up one day by meeting Alice Lane. They came suddenly face to face at a sharp turning close by the Serpentine.

“You’re most unfashionably early!” he said, falling into step with her.

“I’m unfashionable in everything, I think. I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Is that a kind of way of reminding me that I ought to have called? I’ve been awfully busy.”

“How’s Agatha? Is she still at Brighton?”

“Yes. She’s much better and beginning to enjoy herself. What have you been doing?”

“Just nothing.”

“I can’t believe that of you. You’d go crazy if you hadn’t something to do.”

“Why, I stopped weeks with you and didn’t do a single thing the whole time.”

“That’s true,” he admitted, laughing; “but you always manage to give the impression of being busy. Like one of my men, whom I had to fire out the other day—he was always awfully busy and didn’t get any work done.”

“I’ve no work to do.”

West felt curiously constrained; not that anything in her tone or manner jarred upon him; she was frankly kind as she always was to him. He did not feel that he had anything to say to her and small talk failed him.

They walked on for some little distance without speaking.

“My brother’s engaged to be married,” she said suddenly.

“Really! That’s good. I must write and congratulate him. But it’ll be a nuisance for you, won’t it? I suppose it will be the customary ‘two’s company.’”

“I shan’t try to make it anything else. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

“Fair to her! That’s like you; that’s you all over. I’d bet anything you haven’t bothered to think about yourself. What a show up you good women make of us men!”

“Don’t say things like that about me,” she answered, so fiercely that he stared at her astonished, “don’t. It’s so utterly untrue. What on earth does a man ever know about a woman? I’m hateful to myself, and I’d be hateful to you if you knew me.”

“I’m sorry—something’s wrong and I’ve touched you on the raw; I’m sorry. Not that I believe you a bit you’re worrying about something that wouldn’t give me a twinge. I—suppose I can’t help you any way?”

“You—no, no, thanks.” She clenched her fingers tightly inside her muff. “No one can help me and I can’t help myself.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You’re such a good sort, I hate to see you suffering; I’m afraid it’s something pretty bad.”

“I’d rather not talk about myself. Tell me about yourself. Don’t you feel lonesome up here without Agatha?”

“Oh, we’re settling down into conventional married life. Quite pleased to be together, but not inconsolable when we’re apart. Aggy’s growing up and finding other amusements in life besides honeymooning.”

“And you?” she asked, not looking at him, but fixing her gaze straight ahead.

“I? Didn’t I tell you I’m very busy?”

“And that’s all you care about?”

“I’m beginning to think so. It’s really the only game worth playing. Now, here we are at Hyde Park corner. Shall I take a turn back with you and be late at the office? Or be a good boy, remember that work’s first, pleasure second?”

“Be a good boy,” she replied, holding out her hand.

She stood still, watching him as he strode rapidly away, and when he was out of sight, still stood there, her lips tightly pressed together, suppressing the cry of hopelessness that tried to force its way from her heart.

West telegraphed later on in the morning to Marian, saying that he would call in the evening on the chance that she would be free to dine with him and go on to a theater afterward, and Marian on her arrival from Brighton found the telegram awaiting her and welcomed it. Her stay at Rottingdean had rested her, had done good to her physically, but had sent her back thirsty for amusement. She had intended to write to West, but good fortune had brought him to her uncalled.

She dressed herself with peculiar care, and was ready for him when he arrived.

“By Jove, this is luck,” he said, “unless you’ve dressed to go out somewhere else? Don’t tell me that and turn a lonely man out on a lonely world.”

“No, I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself when I found your wire here. I only came up from Brighton to-day.”

“You’ve been down there? Well, where shall we go?”

“Anywhere, only somewhere where there are lots of people. I went down there for a change; I’ve come up here for a change.”

“Aren’t I change enough? There’s conceit! Here, slip on your cloak, and we’ll discuss our destination in the cab as we go along.”

Marian had chosen to go to the Gaiety and West had telephoned to the theater, being lucky enough to secure two good stalls. The first act was well under way when they entered the darkened theater, slipping quietly into their seats, amid the more or less skillfully disguised annoyance of their neighbors.

When the curtain fell, Marian looked round the well-dressed house, with its atmosphere of well-to-do-ness and good dinners. West noted the graceful curves of the arm as she held up her opera-glasses, and when she laid them down on her lap and turned to him, noticed, too, how brightly her eyes shone and how well her flushed cheeks became her.

“You do love pleasure, don’t you?” he said.

“I do. Don’t you?”

“Yes. But somebody told me the other day that I was getting old. Perhaps that explains why I don’t seem able to let myself go as I used to do.”

“Doesn’t that depend a good deal upon who you are with?”

“Yes, I’ve been keeping dull company lately, chiefly my own.”

“That’s not a pretty compliment to me!”

“I said ‘lately,’ not to-night. I don’t think even a plaster saint could be dull with you.”

“I can be dull with myself.”

“That may be; it takes flint and steel to strike a spark.”

“Which am I?”

“Does it matter—so long as the flame comes?”

He was looking vaguely round as he spoke to her, but suddenly his eyes rested on Alice Lane sitting in a box with two other ladies and her brother. She saw and recognized him at the same moment. He felt uncomfortable; he did not mind who else saw him, but he would have preferred not having been seen by her in Marian’s company; he knew that she would understand the character of the woman he was with, even if she did not already know her by sight and reputation. Though after all, why should it worry him? Women did not seem to take any account of such things nowadays. But it did annoy him, argue as he would, for he was sure that Alice was not one of the many.

“Have you found some friends?” asked Marian, following the direction of his eyes.

“Acquaintances. One always meets some one one knows here.”

The electric bells were ringing for the beginning of the next act, and in the bustle made by men returning to their seats, and the striking up of the orchestra, conversation dropped, though Marian scanned curiously the calm, strong face of the woman in the box, who, instinct told her, was the one who knew West.

He had made up his mind to put his fortune to the touch with Marian this evening, feeling fairly certain from her manner toward him at dinner that she liked him and would desert Maddison for him. He had decided to take another flat for her, it not being his taste to keep his lady-bird in a nest that another man had feathered. At any rate, no real harm could come of the experiment; if she proved difficult or dull, a check would cut him loose.

He watched the performance without interest. The sight of Alice Lane had stirred something in him that had taken away his relish of Marian’s company. He could not but compare the two. Alice so strong, so trusty, such a good, true comrade. Marian pretty, bright, empty-hearted, ready to sell herself to anyone who could assure her luxury and pleasure, or even luxury alone. Then his thoughts ran on to his wife, a nonentity to him. What a difference it would have made had he not married her, had he really known Alice first, and been able to make her love him. There would be no tiring of her, he knew. Or if Marian were Alice—there had been such women, or scarcely exactly such, but rather women like Alice, who counted the world’s opinion as nothing, and were ready and happy to throw aside every other joy in life, in exchange for the men they loved. But Alice was not like that, and did he love her? Of that he did not feel so certain. He was very fond of her, but surely not in love, or he would have missed her more than he had done. He felt rather that, if he were free to love her, he could and would do so, would do so passionately and forever. But she was not for him; it was sheer folly to let his thoughts stray toward the impossible. The possible sat beside him, and with that he must try to content himself; try to be content with pretty make-believe instead of a beautiful reality.

He would wait, however, until to-morrow or the next day. Marian would not run away, and perhaps would behave all the better for finding that he was not easily caught.

So as they went out of the theater he said:

“I hope you won’t think me very rude not asking you to supper, but I’ve an appointment at my club I must keep.”

“I think it’s awfully kind of you to have given me such a jolly evening—that’s all I think.”

But he knew well enough from the dark look that she could not keep out of her eyes, that she was disappointed and angry. It amused him, and assured him that he had only to ask and she would give.

She clenched her teeth angrily as the hansom spun along homeward. She had meant that he should ride by her side this night.