To Mrs. Walbridge's surprise and relief, Oliver Wick made no sign for several days, although she herself had written to his mother on some pretext and mentioned the engagement in a casual reference that she regarded as very dishonest, though necessary, and probably useful. The morning of New Year's Eve an answer to her note had come from old Mrs. Wick, and she read it several times.

"Dear Mrs. Walbridge,—Thanks very much for your note telling me of the engagement. I am sure you will be glad to know that that queer son of mine is not coming to 'Happy House' at present. He's very unhappy, less I think because he has given up hope of marrying Grisel, than because he is disappointed in her for becoming engaged to a man he is convinced she does not love. I can tell you this quite frankly because he is so fond of you that I am sure you know him well and will understand.

"He is as much like a fussy old mother as a lover in his attitude towards your daughter. He does so resent her knowing and liking people he despises, such as that poor Mr. and Mrs. Ford, for instance, and the Crichells. I met Mrs. Crichell the other day at the Leicester Galleries. She's certainly very pretty, but as I saw from your face that you dislike her, I don't mind telling you that I do too. There's something very unpleasant about her. However, it's very rude of me to abuse your acquaintances, so I'll stop.

"Jenny will be seeing your son New Year's Day, as she's going to accompany him in some songs at Mrs. Gaskell-Walker's, so we hope to hear good news of you all then.

"Yours sincerely,
"Frances Wick."

Oliver carried out his intention, and nothing was seen of him at "Happy House" for some time. Things went very smoothly. Grisel seemed happy, and Sir John's devotion to her seemed to her mother exactly what it should have been—neither slavish nor domineering, without that touch of patronage, so often seen in old men, however much they may be in love, towards their young sweethearts. He had never again referred to their early acquaintance, and Mrs. Walbridge was conscious of a sincere regret that, do what she would, she could not recall him as a youth to her memory.

He was very kind to every one of the family, and Walbridge very often lunched with him at his Club in the City, and spoke vaguely of good things he had been put on by his prospective son-in-law. Walbridge never lost sight of the joke of his (Ferdinand Walbridge) being father-in-law to a man of Barclay's age. But he seemed very disposed to make every possible use of Barclay's experience and kindness.

One day, towards the end of January, Mrs. Walbridge sat by the fire in the drawing-room, working hard at her new book. It was bitterly cold, so cold that she had been obliged to come down from her study in the attic.

Guy, who had been detained in Paris on some regimental business, greatly to his own disgust, had written that he was coming back in a few days, and Mrs. Walbridge's feelings as she sat there in the quiet house, more nearly approached happiness than she had felt for a long time. Griselda, who had been lunching with Maud at her mother-in-law's house, had not come in, and apparently a long, quiet afternoon was before Mrs. Walbridge. Her new book, after all, was going on fairly well, and Mr. Payne had written her a very kind letter in reply to her explanation about her failure with the other one, and he had given her an extension of time that promised to make the completion of "Rosemary" an easy matter. She wrote on and on, and then suddenly, in the middle of her work, and rather to her disappointment, Sir John Barclay was announced by the proud Jessie.

"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you," he said kindly, sitting down by the fire and warming his hands. "Are you working on your book? I've just had news calling me to Scotland. Where's Grisel?"

She explained, saying that Grisel had gone to Maud. "You're sure to find her there."

He nodded. "All right. I'll go and take her out to dinner, and she can take me down to the station, and then Smith can drive her home." He looked at his watch. "It's only half-past four. You're sure I'm not disturbing you? Would you rather have me go?"

"Oh, no. Ring the bell and I'll give you some tea. Yes, I'm working at my book," she went on. "I've got to get it done as soon as I can; the publishers want it."

He looked very kind and interested as he sat there, his handsome head turned towards her, his strong hands held up to the fire—so kind, that suddenly she found herself telling him about her other book, "Lord Effingham"—the failure.

"I'd worked so hard at it," she said, "and it seemed to go well—although I never liked it much; it wasn't a very nice book. And then when I read it through I saw how hopelessly bad it was."

He pleased her by accepting her verdict without flattery and contradiction.

"Perhaps you were too tired. You seem to me to have a great many different duties——"

She shook her head. "No, I wasn't tired, and I've always been used to writing in a hugger-mugger kind of way," she added, with a simple vanity that touched him. "I could always concentrate."

"Who are your publishers?" he asked after a moment. "Oh, yes, good men—good men. I'm not much of a novel reader myself, but of course I know their name."

And then to her own surprise she told him the tragedy of the expired contract. He listened attentively, his whole mind fixed on her story. When she had finished he put one or two shrewd questions to her, and reflected over her answers, after which he said: "I may as well tell you that I knew this before, Mrs. Walbridge."

She started.

"Oh, did you? Do you know them—Mr. Lubbock and Mr. Payne, I mean?"

"No. Your husband told me several weeks ago."

Something in his face betrayed to her his distaste either at Walbridge's confidence or the manner in which it had been made, and she flushed faintly. For Ferdie had, she knew, often disgusted people.

He looked at her thoughtfully, and then to her surprise his face changed, and with a very young smile he broke out: "After all, you've changed very little!"

"Oh, Sir John! I'm an old woman," she protested sincerely, "and I was only a child then."

He nodded.

"I know. The outside of you has changed, of course, but you're much the same in other ways. For instance, you are still worrying to death about something—that business of the book, I suppose—just as you were then. I remember one day in the vicarage garden we had been playing tennis, I tried to persuade you, silly young cub that I was, to confide in me."

"Oh," she cried suddenly, clasping her hands, "didn't you wear a red blazer—red and white stripes? And hadn't you some ridiculous nickname?"

"Good. You've remembered. I am glad." He threw his head back and laughed, and she liked the shine of his white teeth in the firelight. "Of course I had. They called me 'Scrags.'"

She was silent for a little while, and he knew that she was seeing again the shabby old rectory garden with its roses and hollyhocks, and its lumpy tennis lawn, and himself, the youth in the scarlet blazer.

"It was my old school blazer," he told her in a gentle voice, not to interrupt too much the current of her thoughts. "I remember it was too short in the arms, and I was rather ashamed of it. I thought," he added whimsically, "that you might laugh at it."

"I?" The gentle astonishment in her eyes amused him.

"Yes, you. Some day I'll tell you about it, but not now. I've a piece of good news for you," he added. "Your husband and I had a long talk this morning, and as his present business arrangements seem rather unsatisfactory, and as I happen to need a—kind of partner in one of my little business concerns, I've persuaded him to take the position. It's nothing very brilliant," he went on hurriedly, frightened by the change in her face. "Only five hundred a year, but he seems to think he would prefer it to this present work he is doing——"

The look she turned on him was astonishingly like a look of anger, and for some reason it delighted him in its contrast to her husband's easy gratitude. He hated scenes, and was not very well versed in the ways of women, but for reasons of his own his heart sang as she rose.

"I understand very little about business," she said coldly. "But it's very kind of you to give a position to my husband. I think, if you will excuse me, I will leave you now. I am sure Grisel will be back here soon, and I've a seamstress upstairs."

Instead of going to fetch her, he waited there over an hour for Grisel, walking up and down the room, and without visible impatience.

When his little sweetheart arrived she ran upstairs for a warmer coat for they were going to motor. She was gone some time and when they were in the car and he had tucked her luxuriously up in a big rug of flexible dark fur she explained to him why she had kept him waiting.

"It was poor mother. Something's upset her. She was crying—actually crying. I don't think I've ever seen my mother cry before. There she was, face down on her bed, just howling like a child——"

He winced. "You must learn, dearest," he said gently, "not to tell me things I have no business to know."

She looked up at him through her long lashes and laughed wickedly. "Perhaps if you try long enough," she returned, "you'll make a lady of me."

But his face remained grave. "Your mother," he said, "is a splendid woman, my dear. I've a very great admiration for her."

Griselda loved her mother; most girls do love their mothers, but this homage, from a man she admired and respected so much, surprised her.

"Mother? Little old Mum?" she repeated naÏvely. "She's a dear, of course——"

Barclay looked down at her.

"You'll think me an awful old fogey," he said slowly, "but I do seriously wish, my little dear, that you would show a little more—well, understanding, for your mother—to her, I mean."

"Oh, it's you who don't understand," she returned as gravely as he. "I understand, we all do, a great deal more about mother than she could bear to know. Father's always been a beast, but we have to pretend to her that we don't know it——"

They drove on, a little closer together mentally than they had ever been before. Grisel had been very sweet, very womanly, for that short moment, and she, for her part, had, for a brief time, been able to regard him less as the old man she was going to marry for his money, than as a kind and companionable contemporary.

Meantime Mrs. Walbridge had another guest. She had gone up to her writing room, and was working on her new book, when Jessie announced that Mr. Crichell was in the young ladies' room.

"Mr. Crichell?"

"Yes, m'm, and he's in a great hurry."

"Didn't he ask for master?"

"No, m'm," the girl returned with decision, "he asked for you, quite partic'lar, m'm."

It struck Mrs. Walbridge as odd that Crichell should have asked for her, for she hardly knew him. But she smoothed her hair and turned down her sleeve, calling out to Jessie as she went to bring up some more tea.

"Not for me, Mrs. Walbridge," Crichell began, hearing her last words. "No tea, thanks. I've come on a—very unpleasant errand."

She saw that he was very much disturbed, his sleek face being blurred by queer little dull red patches. Sitting down by the fire she motioned him to do the same. But he remained standing, his short legs far apart, his hands behind his back.

"What I have to say will be painful to you," he went on hurriedly. "But it's no worse for you than it is for me. In fact, not so bad, for you must have had some kind of an idea——"

He broke off, seeing from her face that she had even now no notion of what he was driving at.

"I don't understand at all," she said quietly. "Do sit down, Mr. Crichell."

"It's no good beating about the bush," he resumed, still standing. "It's just this. I'm—I'm going to divorce my wife, and Walbridge will be co-respondent."

"Walbridge?" she repeated stupidly, staring at him with what he viciously called to himself, the face of an idiot. "My husband?"

"Yes, your husband—and my wife's lover. Pretty little story, isn't it?" As she was about to speak, he went on, purposely lashing himself, it struck her, into a fury. "I've suspected something for a long time. Haven't you?"

She shook her head. "No." But as she spoke she remembered certain half-forgotten little happenings that might have roused her curiosity had she been more interested in her husband.

"Now don't tell me it isn't true, because it is," he snapped, again interrupting her as she was about to speak.

She was very sorry for him, and looked at him compassionately as he stood there twisting and waving his white hands.

"I'm not going to tell you it isn't true, Mr. Crichell," she answered gently. "I suppose it is, and I'm very, very sorry for you."

Swamped as he was by hurt egotism, he did not fail to observe the peculiarity of her attitude.

"Very kind of you," he muttered, at a loss. "I—I am sorry for you, too. In fact, we're in rather a ridiculous position, you and I, aren't we?" His loud laugh was very shrill, and she held up her hand warningly.

"Hush."

Then he sat down and told her the story. How for months, ever since the late summer, in fact, he had noticed a change in his wife.

"She always had a lot of boys buzzing about and it never occurred to me to suspect Walbridge. I—why he's twenty years older than I am—or near it. I came up and down to town a good deal, and knew they used to see a good deal of each other, but, as I say, the fact of his age blinded me, damn him! Then, a week ago, that night here, I—I caught them looking at each other, and when I got back from seeing my mother—(it was Clara, by the way, who told my mother where we were going to be, and put her up to telephoning for me), I took the trouble to find out what time she had got home, and found that he had come back with her and stayed till three o'clock."

Mrs. Walbridge started. That was the morning when she had stood by her husband's bedside watching him as he lay asleep.

"So after that—my God, it's only a week ago!—I kept my eyes open, and to-day I found these."

He pulled a bundle of letters out of his breast pocket, and tossed them into her lap. The letters were tied with a piece of yellow ribbon, and taking hold of them by the ribbons, Mrs. Walbridge held them out to him.

"I don't want to see them," she said.

"You'd better—to convince you."

"But I am convinced."

He rose solemnly, and put the letters back into his pocket.

"Then I'll not detain you any longer. I thought I'd better come and tell you myself."

At the door he turned.

"Dirty trick, wasn't it? Seen enough of women to know better. But I trusted her——"

They stared at each other for a moment, and then he came back into the room.

"I'm very sorry for you, too," he said awkwardly. "You take it so quietly that I rather forgot——"

She laughed a little. "Perhaps," she said, "you'll think better of it—of divorcing her. There are so many things to be considered, Mr. Crichell."

But at this his fury rose again, and he shouted that nothing in heaven or earth would prevent his divorcing her. "And you'll have to do the same," he added, almost menacingly.

"Why should I divorce my husband?"

"Surely you don't want him after this?"

"I want him," she replied very slowly, as if feeling for the right words, "exactly as much as I've wanted him for many years, Mr. Crichell."

As she spoke they heard the rattle of a latchkey in the front door.

"That's Ferdie," she said hastily. "Oh, you won't have a quarrel with him, will you?"

"No. I've already seen him—I've nothing more to say. How can I get out without meeting him?"

With pathetic knowledge of her husband, she bade him stay where he was.

"I'll tell him you're here, and he'll go into the dining-room."

At the foot of the stairs she met Walbridge taking off his coat, a curiously boyish look in his face. "Ferdie," she said quietly, "Mr. Crichell's in the girls' room."

With a little smile of almost bitter amusement, she watched him as he tiptoed into the dining-room and closed the door.

When Crichell had gone she joined her husband. He was smoking and walking up and down, a glass of whisky and soda in his hand.

"Well," he began at once, with the little nervous bluster of the man who doubts his own courage, "I suppose he's told you."

"Yes, he's told me," and then she added, without seeing the strangeness of her words. "I'm so sorry."

He stared, and then, with a little laugh of relief, drained his glass and set it down.

"It had to be," he announced with visible satisfaction at the romantic element of the situation. "But I'm sorry, too, Violet, very sorry. I've fought long and hard."

She looked at him with a little gleam in her eyes that arrested his attention, although he told himself it could not possibly be a gleam of amusement.

"No, Ferdie," she said, "I don't think you fought long and hard. I don't think you fought at all."

Looking pitifully like a pricked balloon, he dropped into a chair and gripped the edge of the dining-room table.

"What do you mean, Violet? Really!" he murmured, with the indignation of a sensitive man confronted with a feminine lack of delicacy.

"Oh, I don't want to hurt your feelings, Ferdie, and no doubt you do feel extremely romantic. But it would save time if you didn't try to be romantic with me. You see, I know you very well."

Before he could gather his wits together to answer her, she had gone on quietly:

"I won't tell you what I think of your treating Mr. Crichell in this way, after accepting his hospitality all winter. It would not do any good, and it wouldn't interest you. But I am wondering if you couldn't persuade him, in some way, not to make a scandal. Don't interrupt me. Wait a minute. It will be so dreadful for her—for Mrs. Crichell, I mean. How could you have been so careless as to let him find out?"

Walbridge leant across the table towards her, his face almost imbecile in his open-mouthed amazement.

"Do you—do you know what you are talking about?" he stammered. "Are you sane at all? I never heard of such a thing in my born days."

"Oh, yes, I'm sane enough. But I don't want the children to know. It's an awfully bad example for Guy; he'll be home in a day or two. Just think, he's only twenty-one, and he doesn't know—I mean he thinks—oh, yes, it would be awful if there was a scandal."

Ferdinand Walbridge made a great effort and managed to scramble to his feet, mentally as well as physically.

"My dear," he said, modulating his beautiful voice with instinctive skill, "you don't understand. This is not an amourette. I love Clara Crichell. It is the one wish of my life to make her—to marry her."

For many years her indifference to her husband had been so complete, so unqualified by anything except a little retrospective pity, that he had never dreamed of the thoroughness of her knowledge of him. She had never cared to let him know; she had been busy, and it had not seemed worth while, and now she found difficulty in making him understand her position, without unnecessarily hurting his feelings.

"But you can't marry her," she said slowly. "There's me."

"Surely you'll not be so wicked as to ruin our lives," he went on, secretly, she knew, rather enjoying himself, "because of an old-fashioned, obsolete prejudice? What's divorce nowadays? A mere nothing."

"I know," she said wearily, for she felt suddenly very tired. "Most people think so, but I don't."

"But you don't mean to say that you want a man who no longer loves you?"

It was nearly six o'clock, and the room was lighted only by firelight. In the charitable gloom Walbridge looked very handsome, and the attitude he instinctively struck was not unbeautiful theoretically. She looked at him for a moment.

"My dear Ferdie," she said at last, "I can't talk any more now because Hermy and Billy and Mr. Peter Gaskell-Walker are dining with us at half-past seven, and I've several things to see to. And as to your loving me, you know perfectly well that you've not loved me for nearly thirty years."

He was too utterly baffled to find a word in reply, and by the time he could speak she had left the room.

As he dressed for dinner, having unsuccessfully tried to get into her room, he reflected with sincere self-pity that it was small wonder he had fallen in love with a beautiful, sympathetic woman like Clara. Violet was plainly not quite sane. He gave a vicious jerk to his tie as he reached this point.

"Why, damn it all," he muttered, "she doesn't seem to care a hang!"