i

The night was very still and very fresh; but it was not freezing. A little wind hung and played in the trees, and sometimes swept along the ground; and it was dark because neither moon nor stars were visible. All the noises of the day were silenced. Only at times did a solitary taxicab create a burst of humming as it passed the end of a road, and the sound faded as suddenly as it had risen. Edgar, running from the house in his thin shoes, made hardly more than a light pattering upon the sidewalk. It was a night for adventure.

He could not yield to the quick speculations which darted to his brain; for the moment was one which demanded a clear head and rapidly applied thought. So many things might impede his progress: the car might be difficult to start, a tyre might be down, the thousand unexpected vagaries with which the motorist may at any moment be hindered were all present as possibilities to Edgar's mind. He was alert and anxious, bent upon meeting every emergency before it arose; and as he ran swiftly he was almost praying that there might on this occasion be no mishap.

The garage in which Edgar kept his car lay at some distance from his home. It had been a stable; but was so no longer. Two heavy, painted doors fastened with a padlock. They were opened very quickly, and pushed back against the outer wall of the garage. The light showed his faithful friend standing mutely in its place, as if waiting for his arrival—a grave little dark blue coupÉ with a long blue bonnet to match its body, and an interior of soft grey. Even in his haste, Edgar looked proudly upon the car. It was so beautiful, so speedy, so responsive to his touch; its line was so graceful, its lightness so apparent. Very fit instrument was this car for the deliverance of any maid in distress. There was no least incongruity between it and the romantic mission upon which Edgar believed himself to be engaged.

And yet he must not stay to think or feel. For him the detail of mechanical aids to swiftness was of urgent importance. As if in one movement, he switched on the lights, front and tail, manipulated three little knobs, ran quickly to the front of the car, and gave his engine a swing. His lips were tightly compressed; his expert ear was strained.... The engine was cold. What if there should be a difficulty in starting? Ghastly! Again he swung upon the handle, and at the resulting sound straightened with a breath of inexplicable relief. Within that little blur of fluttering noise lay reassurance. It was all right. Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick, said the engine, as happy and regular as if the car were coasting a hill. One, two, three; Edgar was in his place. The noise was increased. The car was in motion. He was out upon the dark road, speeding to Patricia through the deserted streets, now so fair and open to the questing traveller; the only sound audible to Edgar that beautiful eagerness which animated his own car. His eyes were steady and his hand easy upon the wheel. The lights of the main thoroughfares were clear, unearthly, and the way was free, as if inviting him to the race.

London at night he knew; but this journey gave Edgar a new vision of it. So quickly did he pass familiar objects that they swam together in his recording impression. It was London dignified and purified into ghostly loveliness by the night, but London so decreased in size that it became a village. All monuments and buildings of great size or antiquity were made insignificant; the broad roads of the west as he sped through them were so many paths. He had his goal, and could not attend the beauties he so silently and so eagerly left upon his way.

And at last, as he emerged to the appointed meeting-place, Edgar saw Patricia, a little disconsolate figure, waiting in the shadow of the railway-station faÇade. All there was darkness. The last trains had rumbled their way through the station, and it was as deserted as if it had been forgotten. Only Patricia's outline was to be discerned, but she was recognisable, and as he turned the car and ran alongside the kerb she came immediately forward. Both moved as in a dream. He had one glimpse of a white face within the radiance of the nearer lamp; and his nerves thrilled as he opened the door so that she could join him. It was an almost mute encounter, with midnight long past, in this silence and darkness, and there was unavoidable constraint upon both sides, so singular was the relation existing between them. Without a word, Patricia shut the door and drew back into the farther corner of the car, away from Edgar. To his inquiry she made no answer, and he saw that her eyes were closed, as if in complete exhaustion. Puzzled, Edgar touched her hand once; but there was no response, and after a single instant in which he tried to gain some knowledge from Patricia's expression he turned away once more and in silence they began their journey together.

ii

Now all was changed. Edgar no longer drove at reckless speed. He went slowly and easily by a longer route, which took them by frequented streets; and they passed many cabs or cars travelling from the opposite direction. They were thus not alone, since they were in an active world. Edgar was still concentrated upon the car and the road; but he was very conscious of Patricia's ominous and stubborn silence. Many explanations of it, and speculations as to what had happened, and what had made her telephone to him at so late an hour entered his head; but a moving automobile at night, in a city, when one is the driver, is not a possible situation for agitated enquiry. Edgar therefore waited for Patricia to explain of her own accord, which apparently she could not yet do. Therefore, with only occasional slight glances aside at the face half invisible in the darkness, he concerned himself wholly with their progress. Only when the road was at last clear, and he could take the wheel with his right hand, did he stretch out the left to her.

"What is it?" he asked. "What was it?"

Patricia took his hand in both her own, and pressed it, holding it tightly against her breast. But still she did not speak; and in a moment, when there was an obstruction in the road, Edgar was forced to withdraw his hand so that he could use the other to sound the warning horn. He could feel Patricia's hand extended so that she could touch him, and the knowledge that she wished this reassuring contact gave him a faint happiness; and so they sat together in the darkness until they arrived in Chelsea, and in the road where Patricia lived. Edgar stopped the car and the engine, turning to her.

"You haven't changed your mind," he said, in a murmur. "What then?"

His arm was moved to embrace her; but she did not permit it. Only she again took his hand in both of hers.

"I haven't changed my mind at all," said Patricia in a cold voice.

"So I heard," answered Edgar, smiling, his face close to hers.

"But I wanted to see you," she whispered.

"And then?"

There was a pause.

"Nothing," whispered Patricia again, so low that he could hardly hear her. She immediately afterwards stiffened, discarding his hand as though it had been a loathsome temptation. Edgar stared down at his poor hand. "Nothing—nothing at all."

"It's done you good to see me?" he asked. He could see a quick little nodding. "Well, that's something, don't you think?"

"You're good," said Patricia. "You're better than me."

"Of course, I'm extraordinarily good," Edgar agreed. "But—"

"Silly!" It was a sort of ashamed mumble that he heard. "Well, I'm going now."

"Oh, not yet." He had tried to take her hand; but Patricia eluded him, and bent forward to open the door. The catch was difficult, and she could not master it. Edgar also bent forward, both arms extended; and it seemed so much easier to take Patricia in his arms than to undo the catch of the door that he could not help following the easier course.

"No!" cried Patricia, succeeding with the catch, and almost tumbling out of the car. She shut the door firmly behind her; and Edgar, inside, looked out upon Patricia, who stood without. The window upon that side of the car was raised, and so communication between them was impossible. Edgar opened the door. "Don't get out," said Patricia, quickly. "Thank you very much for coming for me. It was awfully good of you to come."

"Not at all," said Edgar, very politely, stepping to the ground. "But won't you tell me why you wanted to see me? And there are one or two other things, by the way—"

Patricia groaned.

"I can't argue with you to-night," she said, as if in a goaded voice of exhaustion.

"Will you argue with me to-morrow?"

"I'll never argue with you!" vehemently exclaimed Patricia. He did not believe her. He thought she would always argue with him. "And I'm not sure that I want to see you to-morrow."

"Very well," said Edgar quietly. He took off his cap, and stepped back into the car.

"What time?" cried Patricia.

He leaned forward.

"You're a silly little thing!" he said. "But as to-morrow is Saturday, and I shall not go to the office at all, I'll call for you in this at ten o-clock, and take you to some thoroughly vulgar and third-rate hotel for lunch, and then I'll explain—I won't argue; but I'll explain—what's the matter with you."

And with that he used his mechanical starter, closed the door of the car, and would have driven off. But Patricia had come round to the open window of the car.

"Edgar," she said, pleadingly. "Don't be unkind. I've been a horrible little beast to-night; and I'm very ashamed of myself—and worse. And I had to see you to ... to...." She stammered. "I can't tell you," she continued. "Yes, I can. I must. I wanted to see you to get clean again after what I've been going through this evening. And while I was waiting for you I thought I'd see if I was good enough for you. And I'm not. But do come for me to-morrow. It's very necessary. Really. Good-night, Edgar." She held her hand in at the window. He shook it, and Patricia, who perhaps had expected another form of farewell, withdrew the hand as the car moved forward upon its homeward journey.

iii

The next morning Edgar gave Claudia the surprise of her life. They were sitting at breakfast, and Claudia was being very quiet and tactful in case Edgar should be feeling badly about what Olivia had said during dinner on the previous evening. She had taken peeps at him, and was gradually relaxing her vigilance in face of his apparently normal cheerfulness. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Mayne was present; and the brother and sister were eating and drinking with a sedate nonchalance customary to both.

"You going to the office to-day?" asked Claudia, suddenly.

Edgar awakened from some evidently pleasant preoccupation.

"Er ... no, not to-day," he said, helping himself to another piece of toast. "By the way, you've got a fur coat, haven't you? Could you lend it to me? That is, I suppose you wouldn't mind Patricia wearing it? I'm taking her out to-day in Budge, and she might be cold."

Claudia passed her hand across her forehead.

"Taking Patricia.... My poor boy!" she cried. "Trouble's turned your brain. No, no. I'll come if you think it would do you good; but Patricia...."

"I am taking Patricia out in Budge to-day," repeated Edgar. "And require the loan of your fur coat. Don't ask questions, there's a good girl; but if you wouldn't mind lending the coat it might be a boon."

Claudia collapsed.

"The world ends," she said, as if stupefied. "Of course, have my fur coat. Take anything. But for Goodness' sake, Edgar, don't leave this thing unexplained. I couldn't bear it."

"I may bring Patricia here to dinner to-night," answered Edgar, briefly. "On the other hand, I may not."

"Quite probably not, I should say," observed Claudia, with detachment. "Does she know you're taking her out in Budge?" He nodded. Claudia rushed wildly to the door, and returned presently bearing a fur coat. "There!" she cried. "And if you won't tell me what communication you've had with Patricia since I went to bed last night you're a pig, and I'll throw you over."

He explained, tactfully, that Patricia had telephoned. He said no more. He was not now quite sure what had happened on the previous night. He could not disentangle from each other the speeches actually made and those which had occurred to him since as possible to have been made in such circumstances. He was sure of only one thing; and he was not, as yet, ready to tell Claudia the whole truth. Therefore he took her fur coat and swung easily out of the house bearing it upon his arm.

Claudia, left by herself at the breakfast-table, was bereft of self-confidence.

"Well!" she exclaimed. "What does it all mean? I'm flabbergasted!" She knew there had been no telephone call this morning. She knew that Patricia had no telephone in her rooms. It was a mystery. For the first time she wondered whether it might not be the case that Patricia loved Edgar. She had not believed that hitherto. It was a testimony to her insight as well as to her sisterly tact that she had not believed it and had not pretended to believe it, while at the same time she had resolved that it should become credible to both Edgar and herself. Perhaps, also, to Patricia. She went about her work during the morning with a lighter heart than she had known for several days.

iv

Edgar was punctual in his arrival at Patricia's door. As he left the car and lowered its hood, a church clock near by struck the hour. He advanced to the front door, and knocked. And as he did so Patricia appeared at the door, dressed for going out. She had feverishly been ready for ten minutes, and had watched for him. She greeted him, but their eyes did not meet, and he could see that she was still pale, possibly from want of sleep; possibly even, it might have been, from inability to eat her breakfast.

"I brought a coat of Claudia's," he said, with a good deal of carelessness which covered a temporary lack of assurance. "You'd better wear it, because it may be very cold driving. Would you like to leave your own coat? No, better bring it."

Patricia was mystified as to his reasoning; but she allowed herself to be packed into the fur coat, and then sat quite still while Edgar re-started the car and drove down the road and round a corner into the King's Road and so through Putney to Kingston and out on to the Guildford road. She had tried to equal his casualness with her own; but she was feeling very shaky, and was glad of the silence. Patricia did not know where they were going; but the car's smooth motion was delightful, and the morning was crisply cold; and as they drew free of traffic and tramcars the opening country began to surround her with beauties which sprang freshly upon every hand and awakened self-forgetful rapture in her heart. Although the year was dying, there were trees which still clung to their leaves, and strange attractive byeways which caught the eye and roused the impulse to explore; and, as they sped farther, charming little towns and villages which she had never before seen. When once they were through Guildford and upon the Hog's Back the views—thinned and obscured though they were by autumnal mists—were entrancing, and Patricia lay back with colour coming again into her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. She was cosily warm in the borrowed fur coat; the car, although small, had the movement of one considerably larger; and as Patricia had almost complete ignorance of motoring the experience was new and fine. Everything passed swiftly—everything was glimpsed, half-seen, and immediately succeeded by some other object of beauty or interest, until it seemed as though she must be surfeited, since the greedy mind could not hold so many fleeting images of loveliness. Patricia thought that this must be the way in which children saw the whole of life—as a great swift progress of joys to which they had only to stretch their hands. But those who grew up knew that the joys passed before ever they were gathered. The joys alone? Perhaps the sorrows also. Everything ... everything passed.... That was the thought in her mind. She remembered the French saying.... Everything passes. Would this journey end? Would she always travel unsatisfied, wonder-struck and unresting? Was that her lot? The fear of it made her shiver.

"Cold?" asked Edgar, aside.

Could he see her? Was he then watching, although so apparently intent upon the road? Patricia cried "No!" in response, and a further "Lovely!" in case he should be hurt; and then her eyes stole on a journey. If Edgar could know when she shivered, was there ever to be any escape from his watchfulness, his care? When Patricia, like the Devil, was sick, or afraid, there was nothing she so demanded as care; but when she was well, it irked her. She could see Edgar's face in profile, brown and kind and firm; and she was a little afraid of him. She thought he could be stern. Not cruel—never cruel; but stern. And the words "all the better to eat you with, my dear" crept into Patricia's head. She was very subdued, and although she was still observant of the beauties they passed, and stirred by the rapid motion through crisp air that was now tempered by brilliant sunshine, extraordinarily defensive argumentation was going on in her brain. If she were to marry Edgar, it must be after clear speech between them. Never for comfort or in despair. She was resolved upon that. For one thing, her respect for him exacted as much. Patricia's nerve had been shaken, and she had lost some of her self-confidence; and, with that, some of her natural ease of carriage and pleasure in life itself.

"Where are we going?" she presently called out.

To her surprise, Edgar slowed down. He even stopped, there upon the Hog's Back, with the beautiful country stretching away in two valleys upon each side of the lofty road.

"Wherever you like," he said. "We can lunch at Winchester. There's a village on the way there—a most charming village called Chawton, where Jane Austen lived—full of old thatched houses. You'd like it. I don't know anything more delicious in its way. I don't know if we could get food there."

"Are you hungry?" she asked. Unconsciously her tone was arch; but with pathetic, troubled archness. "And what's that about Jane Austen?"

"Well, I didn't bring anything to eat, and the air will make you hungry. We can either go south from Farnham—only I don't know the roads round Liss or Petersfield;—or we can go on to Winchester, lunch there, and go back by way of Basingstoke. Or we can turn back now and go through Guildford to Godalming...."

"Oh, oh!" cried Patricia. "I don't mind what we do."

"You like it?" He was looking at her in such a peculiar way that Patricia shivered again. It seemed to break her composure, which she was struggling so hard to preserve.

"Oh, my dear," she whispered suddenly. "I'm not worth it!"

Her hands were in his, and her eyes were as candid as his own. So they sat in the car on that bright morning, upon the top of the Hog's Back, and the wide rise and fall of the lower lands spreading to north and south under a slight haze. The sky above them was a deep blue. The road was open, and it seemed that none used it, so peaceful was the scene upon this glorious morning. Only Edgar and Patricia were there, with the breeze around them, and the sunshine ardent, and a sense of the limitlessness of the world strong in both.

It was here that their talk began.

v

"Of course the trouble about you is that you don't love me," said Edgar, in a cool voice which showed that he was anxious by its elaborate calm. "Not, at any rate, as I love you."

"No," agreed Patricia. Her own tone was a copy of his; and the word was a mere acceptance. She was as grave as he, and yet neither was grave. They were both grave and not grave. But Patricia had said "no"; and Edgar had received the shock to which he had steeled himself.

"Do you—forgive me—you don't love anybody else? It isn't, of course, necessary that you should; but sometimes it's a factor."

Patricia glanced up at him, and even in her gravity she smiled. "No, I don't love anybody else," she said. "And I know you well enough to know that when you talk like that you're being funny."

"I'm not being at all funny," protested Edgar. There was a sound of consent from Patricia. He went on, undeterred. "The reason you don't love anybody else is that you're in love with yourself."

"Oh." Patricia had not been so forewarned as to steel herself; and this shock depressed her. In a very low voice she said, trying to hide her wound: "I'm not much in love with myself at this moment."

The tone was so sad that unconsciously Edgar pressed her hands in pain. He would have done so much to save her from humiliation; and yet his way was clear and his attitude deliberately adopted.

"This is your wickedness, I suppose?" he asked patiently. Patricia nodded.

"At least, not wickedness—silliness. But perhaps you'd think it worse. I'd better tell you. Five minutes ago—a few days ago—I thought I was in love with a man."

"Harry Greenlees," interposed Edgar. Again Patricia nodded.

"I can't have been. I was attracted to him—I thought I was in love with him. I thought he was my ideal man. I was fond of him. But when it came to the point I felt I couldn't ever marry him. And as a matter of fact he didn't want to marry me. He only wanted to have a love affair with me. But I only found that out at the end. Well, it's a very little while ago, and I was in great anguish; and now I've forgotten him. It couldn't have been anything; anything but just a silly playing at love and beauty. It wasn't his fault. He did care for me in his own way; but it was a grown-up way; and I wasn't ready for grown-up love. I'm not ready now. I'm shallow. I don't think I could love anybody. Perhaps what you said is true."

Edgar had listened with attention; and he could tell that she was being painfully honest, and that she could not help being honest with him; and this made him feel proud and humble. It seemed to Edgar to be the first step in such a relation as theirs must be if it was to lead to happiness for them both.

"There doesn't seem to me to be much wickedness there," he suggested mildly.

"No, there isn't," said Patricia, with a faint colour coming to her cheeks. "The wickedness comes later. The wickedness comes up to last night." She could tell that he was now really serious, and she faltered. "It's ... it's Monty," she concluded. Edgar's head jerked.

"Monty!" he cried. "Monty! Oh, but my dear, how could you?" He was incredulous. "Monty!"

"He fascinated me. There was no question of my being in love with him. But he made me feel I was wonderful and beautiful...."

"But to be taken in by Monty!" exclaimed Edgar. "It's extraordinary. I believe women must somehow be less fastidious than men. You couldn't imagine me fascinated with Monty's counterpart?" His face expressed the horror he felt at his own image. Patricia shuddered.

"You'd never be fascinated by anybody," she said. "You'd always be quite calm. Besides, you don't want to be thought wonderful."

"I don't want Brummagem admiration."

"And you don't give it!" she flashed at him. "You don't give any admiration. You don't think I'm wonderful. You think I'm a silly child. Well, that makes ... you see, I couldn't love you...."

"By the way," said Edgar, coolly. "What makes you think you're so jolly wonderful? Is it something you do, or something you are?"

Patricia looked at him breathlessly. She was stimulated to temper.

"Nobody could ever love you!" she cried angrily. "You're too inhuman!"

vi

Her hands were now altogether withdrawn from him, and tears sparkled in her eyes. Edgar bent forward, so that she could not escape him.

"Look here, Patricia," he said. "Can you imagine the feeling of a lover who hears that the girl he loves has been making love to an obvious rotter the previous evening? I mean, if there's one thing that strikes me about Monty more than another it is his lack of ... what can I say?—his lack of.... I think he's obviously sensual and unclean. I can't see his fascination for you. If I came to you and said I'd been with some horrible woman, wouldn't you turn sick? Well, I'm disappointed. I'm angry. The love-making is nothing unless you meant it, which you didn't. It's nothing. You exaggerate its importance. You were never in any real danger. I don't blame you, except for folly. Though of course I don't like it. But that you should be taken in by Monty!"

"I wasn't taken in. I knew he must be a rotter. And yet, you see, I went there," said Patricia. "That shows the sort of girl I am. I was miserable and reckless. It amused me to—to play with him, if you like. It made me feel a woman. I was trying to grow up. You've made a mistake, Edgar." She was bitter, but not only with anger. There was hopelessness also in her defiance. "You ought to marry a nice girl." "I propose to," said Edgar. "I propose to marry you."

"Oho!" cried Patricia. "You won't marry me. You needn't think it."

"Unless of course," retorted Edgar.... "Unless I adopt you. That might be the simpler course." He also for the moment was bitter with chagrin. He was encountering a fact which was hard to accept; and he was in love with Patricia.

vii

Leaving Patricia aghast at his alternative, he began to drive on; and the sun continued to glitter upon the polished metal of the car and upon the wind screen. Patricia lay back in her corner recovering her temper and her composure. Presently she shouted at him.

"You've got too much respect for women!" she said. Edgar took no notice of her. She was quiet a little while, thinking. At last: "You're quite right. I'm not wonderful! Edgar, stop! I want to talk to you. I want to tell you something."

The car was checked; and in her very truthful voice Patricia described the events of the previous evening. When she came to the thousand pounds Edgar exclaimed. At the mention of two thousand he turned quickly to her.

"Monty was prepared to go up to two-thousand five-hundred," he said. "He's got a regal way of pensioning his mistresses. You might have made two-thousand five-hundred pounds, Patricia."

"He offered to marry me," answered Patricia, defiantly. "But he didn't really mean it, of course. It was only something to attract my attention."

"I was thinking," said Edgar, slowly. "Your lovers are rather a fine set of men, aren't they!" "You think they're something to be conceited about?" retorted Patricia. "Edgar, don't you really think I'm rather wonderful!" It was apparently wistful; but only apparently so.

"I'm so concerned with my own marvellousness," he crudely answered, "that I can't spare time to admire yours."

"But Edgar, girls have to be admired," she said. "Look here: you've done something. You've achieved something. Can't you see that if you've never done anything you have to make up something to live for. If I loved you, and had no other ambition, I could live in your interests, as you want me to. But I can't play second fiddle—not yet—not until I've sown my wild oats. If I'm no good, then...."

Edgar turned round. If he observed the fiddler sowing wild oats he ignored the confusion.

"There's something in that," he said. "I don't want you to play second fiddle. You haven't made up your mind to marry me; but you've got a sense that you're going to ... that's so, isn't it?" There was a pause.

"I think so," answered Patricia at last, in a very quiet voice. "It seems inevitable. That is, if I'm to marry anybody at all. But I'm not ready to marry you."

"What you'd like to do is not to make up your mind. You'd like to go on as we are, being friends, until I'm tired of you and you are tired of me, and we can have disagreeable middle-ages of loneliness and regret. I don't care to waste our lives in that way. I admit that I'm not an ideal lover; but I've got other points, and you know them. You know that in some curious way you depend on me. You may not be in love with me; but no other man means as much to you, or will ever mean as much. If it's put to you that you either marry me or lose me, you'll marry me rather than lose me. But if you don't love me, it would be very wrong to marry me simply because you couldn't bear to lose me...."

Patricia allowed him to wander on. She was smiling.

"I like to hear you talk," she said. "It's agreeable. It's all irrelevant, and verbose; and if you think I'm to be threatened into marrying you, you're mistaken. Can't you see it would murder my vanity? But I haven't anything to give you. You'd be giving to me all the time. I could have given something they wanted to Harry and Monty, and when it came to the point I wouldn't give it, because they couldn't give me anything I wanted in exchange. You can give me a lot. You can make my life worth living. But I can't give you anything, because you don't want it."

"We'll get on to Winchester now," said Edgar, with studied—even ostentatious—patience. "Because I want to take you back to London to tea with some friends of ours—Olivia and Peter Stephens."

"Stephens?" said Patricia. "Aren't they ... aren't they the married people who are happy?" She became thoughtful. The car began to move; but she was unconscious of everything but her own darting intuitions. Amy ... the happy young lovers ... what had Amy said? For an instant full memory of the conversation eluded her. Then at last. "Why take me there?" she asked.

"It'll do you good to meet some real people for a change," said Edgar. "Happy people. People who haven't got their heads cluttered with sophistication and egotism. People who aren't sterile sensation-rakers, and lascivious fiddlers with their senses."

Again Patricia was lost in thought. His rather heated tone was a natural discouragement to her. Suddenly she gave an exclamation. "Oh, babies!" she said. She did not open her lips again until the car arrived in Winchester.

viii

They had lunched, and were again upon the road; and the bare hedges showed Patricia lands that stretched full of wood and copse and meadow into the farthest distance. From a high place upon a common, where Edgar had halted for the sake of the glorious panorama, she could see Hampshire extending upon the one hand and Surrey upon the other. She was very happy now, but her heart a little ached. It was the breeze, perhaps, that chilled; or a return of her old painful feeling of loneliness.... But as Patricia thought that, she knew suddenly what she wanted, and Edgar knew it also, for he put his arm round her.

"My old sweet," he said. "Never think I don't love you,—as much as any Harry or Monty; and with the same warmth. I do. You're everything to me."

His lips were very close; and still Patricia delayed, not excited, but welcoming, half-smiling, half-afraid. She was shy. She had not been shy with Harry or with Monty. But she was shy with Edgar. From him a kiss seemed almost ceremonial. And as she thought that, Patricia blushed.

"Don't let's go to the Stephenses'," she said, breathlessly, her head lowered. "I know why you want me to go there. Do you want babies so much, Edgar? More than you want me? You see, I'm ... I know I'm conceited and horrible ... but it's because I feel so worthless." Lower and lower sank her head, to his breast, and she was held close to Edgar's heart. "Funny heart, to beat," she said. "You do love me, don't you.... Really love me...." "Really," he swore. "All my heart."

"And you think I'm an idiot."

"Yes."

Patricia hit her lover a sharp blow of exasperation.

"And you don't think I'm wonderful."

"No."

She sat upright again, still within the circle of his arm.

"Has your car got a name?" she asked.

"Yes, Budge. Claudia named him; because at first he wouldn't. She kept saying 'He won't budge. He won't budge.' And suddenly he did. So that's how he was christened."

"Well," said Patricia, as though she were concluding a scene. "This is all very well; but ... Edgar, you do love me? And you'll try to make me less idiotic? Of course, I'm not in love with you. You don't attract me at all. But in a sort of way you're rather nice."

Her lips were trembling. She blinked away some tears. It did not at all accord with her anticipation of romance. And yet it was shot through and through with a beautiful tranquillity.

"I wish you'd let me kiss you," said Edgar. "I can't if you turn your face away. Unless I slew it round by force."

"Silly!" muttered Patricia. Edgar exerted force. Not much was necessary. Patricia put her arms round his neck, and they kissed, and then laughed. "Suppose we're making a mistake," she cried. "Suppose it's all wrong."

"After all, most people take a risk," said Edgar.

"I don't take a risk. It's you who take the risk," she answered. "You can be trusted. I can't. Look at the way I've behaved. I'm a rake! Suppose I ran away with somebody?"

"Then I should keep the babies," said Edgar. Patricia looked indignantly at him.

"You're only a great baby yourself!" she said. "How extraordinary! And I thought...." She was amazed. It was a discovery of the most astounding significance to her. She had thought of him always hitherto as a grown-up. Was he then not grown-up? Her eyes glowed. "Edgar, tell me this!" she exclaimed. "Are you afraid of me?"

"I am," said Edgar.

"Truly afraid? And do you think I'm a poor insect?"

"I think you're the most wonderful creature that ever lived. I adore you," said Edgar.

Great tears splashed from Patricia's eyes. Laughing, she held him closely, and impulsively kissed the brown cheek next her own.

"Dearest!" she cried. "It's a dream. I didn't know I ... I didn't realise how much I loved you, until just exactly that moment when I saw you were nothing but a silly baby. But you're artful, you know! You're a deep one." Ruminatingly, she presently added: "I'm not so sure about those risks."

She was strangely exalted and happy, and her face was the funny face of a baby; and she sometimes could not meet Edgar's eyes, and sometimes boldly sought them; and altogether was mystified by her own sensations, and by the odd thoughts which came sparkling into her mind and on to her tongue. The two of them continued to sit in Budge and to be consumed in the marvel of their situation. Around them the wind played and the sun shone as it travelled towards the west, and the counties continued to subsist as if no lovers sat high above them absorbed in joy.

THE END.