Mr. Nix, the manager of Hortons, had never been an analyser of the human character: it startled him, therefore, considerably, somewhere about March or April of 1919, to find himself deep in introspection.

What is deep to one may not be deep to another, and Mr. Nix's introspection amounted to little more than that he felt, as he found himself confiding to a friend one evening, as though he "were nothing more or less than a blooming juggler—one of those fellows, Joe, that tosses eight or ten balls in the air at a time. That's what I'm doing, positively."

"If you ask me," said his friend, "what you're doing, Sam, is thinking too much about yourself—being morbidly introspective, that's what you're being. I should drop it. That kind of thing grows."

"No, am I really?" said Mr. Nix, anxiously. "Upon my word, Joe, I believe you're right."

What Mr. Nix meant, however, when he said that he felt like a trick juggler, was literally true. He not only felt like it, he dreamt it. This dream was recurrent; he saw himself, dressed in purple tights, one foot on a rope, the other in mid-air, and tossing a dozen golden balls. Beneath him, far, far beneath him, was the sawdust ring, tiers of people rising to either side of it. The balls glittered and winked and tumbled in the fierce electric light. Always they returned to him as though drawn towards his stomach by a magnet, but always present with him was the desperate fear lest one should avoid and escape him. The sweat stood in beads on his forehead; the leg upon which everything depended began to tremble. The balls seemed to develop a wild individuality of their own: they winked at him, they sniggered. They danced and mocked and dazzled. He missed one, he missed two, three ... the crowd beneath him began to shout ... he swerved, he jolted, he was over, he was falling, the balls swinging in laughing derision about him ... falling, falling.... He was awake.

This dream came to him so often that he consulted a doctor. The doctor consoled him, telling him that everyone was having bad dreams just now, that it was the natural reaction after the four years of stress and turmoil through which we have passed. "You yourself, Mr. Nix, have had your troubles I don't doubt?"

Yes, Mr. Nix had lost his only son.

"Ah, well, that is quite enough to account for it. Don't eat a heavy meal at night. Sleep lightly covered ... plenty of fresh air."

This interview only confirmed Mr. Nix in his already deep conviction that all doctors were humbugs.

"The matter with me," he said to himself, "is just this, that I've got too much to do."

Nineteen hundred and nineteen was a very difficult year for anyone engaged in such business as Hortons.

That spontaneous hour or two of mirth and happiness on the morning of the Armistice had its origin in the general human belief that the troubles of those nightmare years were now over. At once, as though the Fairy Firkin had waved her wand, the world would be changed. The world was changed, but only because a new set of difficulties and problems had taken the place of the old ones, and these new troubles were in many ways harder to fight. That was a year of bafflement, bewilderment, disappointment, suspicion. Quite rightly so—but the justice of it could not be seen by the actors in it.

Mr. Nix was making a brave fight of it, just as throughout the war he had made a brave fight. He was a little man with a buoyant temperament, and no touch of morbidity. His boy's death had shocked him as an incredible event, but he had forbidden it to change the course of his life, and it remained deep down, unseen, a wound that never healed and was never examined.

His embarrassments—the balls with which he was forever a-juggling—were in the main four. First, the Directors in whose power the fate of Hortons and several other service flats lay. Secondly, Hortons itself, its servants, its tenants, the furniture, its food, its finances, its marriages, births, and deaths. Thirdly, his own private speculations, his little private business enterprises, his pals, his games, his vices, and his ambitions. Fourth, his wife, Nancy.

Those four "elements" had all been complicated enough before the war; it would take a man all his time, he used to say, to deal with the Board—nice enough men, but peremptory in many ways, not understanding, and always in a hurry.

He had spent the best years of his life in persuading those men that Hortons was the best service flat in London; they did at length believe that; they were satisfied; but having brought them to such a height they must be maintained there. The war brought discontent, of course. Only the old men were active on the board, and the old men had always been the trying ones to deal with. The war, as it dragged its weary coils along, brought nerves and melodrama with it. Only Mr. Nix, it seemed, in all the world, was allowed to be neither nervous nor melodramatic. He must never show anger nor disappointment nor a sense of injustice ... there were days he honestly confessed to Nancy, his wife, when he longed to pull some of those old white beards....

But worse than those old men were the tenants of Hortons themselves. Here was a golden ball of truly stupendous heaviness and eccentricity. The things they had demanded, the wild, unnatural, impossible things! And the things that Hortons itself demanded! To Hortons the war was as nothing. It must be fed, clothed, cleaned, just as it had always been! You might shout to it about the prices, the laziness of workmen, the heaviness of taxation. It did not care. The spirit of Hortons must be maintained: it might as well not exist as be less than the fine creation it had always been.

As to the third of Mr. Nix's "elements," his private life, that had dwindled until it was scarcely visible. He had no private life. He did not want to have one now that his son, who had been so deeply connected with it, was gone. Everything that he had done he had done for his son: that was his future. He did not look to the future now, but worked for the day, and rather to his own surprise, for Hortons, which had become a concrete figure, gay, debonair, autocratic....

His personal life dropped. He saw little of his friends, never passed the doors of his club, sat at home in the evenings, reading first the Times, then the Morning Post, then the Daily News. He liked to have an all-round view of the situation.

It was his sense of Fair Play.

In this way the third wheel of his life infringed upon and influenced the fourth, his wife.

Mrs. Nix, whose maiden name had been Nancy Rolls, was "about" forty years of age. Even Mr. Nix was not quite sure how old she was: it was her way to exclaim, with her hearty, cheerful laugh: "We're all getting on, you know. There was a time when to be thirty seemed to be as good as dead.... Now that I'm over thirty...." She was round, plump, red-faced, brown-haired, with beseeching eyes, and a little brown mole on the middle of her left cheek. She dressed just a little too smartly, with a little too much colour. Mr. Nix, himself attached to colour, did not notice this. He liked to see her gay. "Nancy's a real sport," was his favourite exclamation about her. He had married her when she was a "baby" seventeen years of age. They had been great "pals" ever since. Sentiment had perhaps gone a little out of their relationship. They were both deeply sentimental people, but for some reason sentiment was the last thing that they evoked from one another. The death of their boy Lancelot should have brought them together emotionally, but their attitude had been, for so long, that of an almost masculine good cheer and good humour, that they bore their great sorrow individually. They had forgotten the language of emotion.

Mr. Nix, in the deep recesses of his soul, pondered over this. He wanted now to get closer to Nancy. He was sure that she felt "our Lance's" death quite desperately, but after the shock of the first month she put on her bright clothes again, and went about to the theatre and entertained her friends. "There's enough misery in the world without my trying to add to it," she would say. "I know some people think it's bad of me to wear these clothes, but it is what Lance would have liked."

As they sat in their cosy little flat, perched high on the top floor of Hortons, evening after evening, Mr. Nix with the paper, Mrs. Nix with a novel, they were both perhaps conscious that the boy's death had made a barrier, and as they lay side by side in their bed at night they were still more conscious of this. The darkness seemed to strip from them that lively exterior life that they had developed. Mr. Nix would lie there and think about Nancy for hours....

In the daytime indeed, his hands were full. The servants alone were problem enough for anybody. First, the men all went away to the war, and he had to have women—women for everything, women for the kitchen, women for the hall, women valets. And then, just as he was getting used to them, the men began to come back—or rather, he had to get new men, men who must be taught their jobs, and learn his rules, and fall in with his ways.

Fortunately he was blessed with a wonderful portress, Fanny. Fanny, on whom, after a time, the whole great establishment seemed to hang. But what did Fanny do but become restless after the Armistice, fall a victim to a conscience which persuaded her that she was, by remaining, keeping a man out of his proper job, and, when he had persuaded her over that difficulty, what should she do then but become engaged to one of the valets, whom she presently married. Then the tenants of the flats were disturbed and agitated by the general unrest. Poor old Mr. Jay was so deeply agitated by the new world that he died of the shock of it, and as though that were not enough, old Miss Morganhurst went out of her mind, and died in a fit.

It became more and more difficult to secure the right kind of tenants. Hortons had always been a very expensive place, and only wealthy people could afford to live there. But how strange now the people who had money! A young man like the Hon. Clive Torby, representative of one of the finest families in England, found suddenly that he had not a penny in the world, and gaily took to house-painting, while on the other side of the shield there were people like the Boddingtons, who simply did not know how to behave, who, wealthy though they were, should never have been in Hortons at all.

Then again, Mr. Nix was most seriously disturbed by the strange new interchanging of the sexes that seemed to have sprung up in this post-war England. "Positively," he said to his wife one evening, "all the men seem to be turning into women, and all the women into men." He read an article in some paper that lamented the rapidity with which women were abandoning all the mysteries that had made them once so charming. How thoroughly Mr. Nix agreed with the writer of the article! He read it all through to Mrs. Nix, who was entirely in accord with every word of it.

"The girls are nothing better than baggages," she declared; "that's my belief."

Hortons, its dignity, its traditions, its morality, was in danger. "I'll save it if I have to die for it," Nix declared.

As the weeks advanced his troubles extended. One strike followed another—coal, food, labour, clothes, all faltered, died, were revived again. Mr. Robsart, the famous novelist, his most eminent tenant, awoke early one morning to find a pipe leaking. His dining-room wall-paper—a very beautiful and exclusive one—developed bright pink and purple spots. It was weeks before anything could be done. Mr. Robsart, who had been led by an excited female public to believe his personality to be one upon which the sun never set, said what he thought about this. The balls faltered in the air, their glittering surfaces menacing and threatening.

The tight-rope trembled; the crowd roared like angry beasts.... This dream was ruining Mr. Nix.

And through it all, like a refrain that set rhythm and measure to the rest, was the sense that he ought to do "something" for Mrs. Nix, that she was unhappy, but would not tell him about her unhappiness, that he should come closer to her, and did not know how.

Into this new troubled confusion of Mr. Nix's life came a figure. One day a young man who had known Lancelot in France came to see them. His name was Harry Harper. He was little more than a boy, was in the London Joint City and Midland Bank, and was as fresh and charming a lad as you would be likely to find anywhere. Mr. Nix liked him at once. In the first place, he had many new things to tell about Lance, and he told them in just the right way, with sentiment, but not too much, with humour a little, and with real appreciation of Lance's bravery, and his popularity with his men, and his charm with everyone.

Mrs. Nix sat there, on her bright red sofa, whilst young Harper told his tale, and her face was as red as the furniture. The tears glittered in her eyes, but they did not fall. Her plump hands were locked lightly on her lap. She stared before her as though she were seeing straight through into the horrors of that terrible No Man's Land, where her boy had faced the best and the worst and made his choice.

"He was always a good boy," she said at last. "You will understand, Mr. Harper, I'm sure. From his very cradle he was good. He never cried like other babies and made a fuss. Of course, as he grew older he had a little of the devil in him, as one might say. I'm sure no mother would have it otherwise. But—Oh! he was a good boy!"

"There, there, mother," said Mr. Nix, patting her soft shoulder. "I'm sure it's very good of you, Mr. Harper, to come and tell us all this. You can understand that we appreciate it."

Young Harper took it all the right way. His tact was wonderful for a boy of his years. Mr. Nix, who, like most Englishmen, was a deep-dyed sentimentalist without knowing it, loved the boy.

"You come and see us whenever you like. We're in most evenings. You'll always be welcome." Harper availed himself of the invitation and came very often. He was leading, it seemed, a lonely life. His parents lived in Newcastle and they had many children. His lodgings were far away in Pimlico, and he had few friends in London. Before a month had passed he was occupying a little spare bedroom in the Nix quarters—a very little bedroom, but wonderful for him, he declared, being so marvellously in the centre of London. "You've given me a home," he cried; "can't thank you enough. You don't know what Pimlico can be for a fellow!"

As the days passed Mr. Nix was more and more delighted with the arrangement. Mrs. Nix had a way of going to bed early and Mr. Nix and Harry would sit up talking. Mr. Nix looked forward to those evenings. He had, he discovered, been wanting someone with whom he might talk, and clear his ideas a bit. Harry, although he was so young, had really thought very deeply. Mr. Nix, whose thinking was rather of an amateur kind, very quickly forgot the difference between their years. Harry and he talked as man to man. If anything, Harry was perhaps the older of the two....

Mr. Nix found that it helped him very much when Harry talked. He did not seem to be balancing so many balls in mid-air when Harry was sharing his difficulties.

The boy had, too, a charm. His air of asking Mr. Nix's advice, as a man of the world. That was what Mr. Nix liked to be considered, and he told Harry many sensible things, especially about women.

"Don't let them catch you," was the burden of his opinion. "They are the devil for getting hold of a man before he knows where he is. Play with them, but don't take them seriously, until the right one comes along. You'll know it as soon as she does. So much wiser to wait. But they're clever ... damned clever...."

"You're right, sir," said Harry. "Ab-so-lute-ly: I remember a girl once——"

He plunged into reminiscence. Finally, however, he declared that he didn't care very much about women. He meant to lead his life apart from them. He'd watched other fellows and he knew the mess they could get into.... Especially married women....

"Ah! married women!" repeated Mr. Nix with a sigh. There wasn't much that he didn't know about married women. It was terrible the way that they were kicking over the traces these days. Really stopped at nothing. Why, he remembered a married woman....

Then Harry remembered a married woman....

Then Mr. Nix remembered still another married woman.

This led quite naturally to certain disclosures about Mrs. Nix. Mr. Nix had indeed reasons to be thankful. There was a woman who was corrupted by none of these modern ideas.

She was no prude, she knew her world, but she believed in the good old rules—"One man for one woman."

"It's been a bit lonely for her," Mr. Nix continued, "since Lancelot went, and it's a bit difficult to make her happy. I'm so busy all day, you see. Takes the whole of a man's time to run a place like this nowadays, I can tell you. Be nice to her, Harry. See as much of her as you can. She likes you."

"Indeed, I will," said Harry fervently. "You two are the first real friends I've ever had. I'm grateful, I can tell you."

Now, strangely enough, the more Mr. Nix thought of his wife, the more seriously and earnestly he puzzled as to the right way to bring her close to him, and make her happy, the less he seemed to realise her. There comes, perhaps, that moment in most married lives when the intimacy of years has thickened the personalities of man and wife so deeply with custom and habit that the real individualities can no longer be discerned. Something of the kind came now to Mr. Nix. The more he attempted to draw closer to Nancy, the more he realised that he was hearing a voice, watching a physical form, having physical contact, but dealing with shadows. He knew so precisely her every movement, her laugh, the way that she caught her breath when she was agitated, the touch of her step on the carpet, that she was no longer a person at all. She was part of himself, perhaps, but a part of himself that he could not treat with his imagination. He had not known before that he had an imagination. The war had given it birth and now it was growing, demanding food, living, thrusting, experiencing, leading its master into many queer places—but neglecting altogether Mrs. Nix.

He found himself, as he sat in his little office downstairs, positively trying to force himself to realise what his wife was like. She had bright yellow hair, a rosy face, a plump figure; she wore two rings, one with a ruby stone, another a pearl. She was marvellously young for her age.... She....

Then, when with a start of surprise he realised what he was doing, he wondered positively whether he were not going mad. He buried himself more and more in the work of the place, of the office, fighting to keep everything straight and proper, realising, although he was frightened to admit it, that Hortons was more vivid to him than anything or anybody else.

Except Harry! "Thank God that boy's here," he thought. "I don't know what we'd do without him. That was a piece of luck for us."

He lay on his bed staring up into the dark ceiling; he heard his wife's regular breathing at his side, and he saw, there in the living dusk above him, the golden balls dancing, rising and falling, multiplying, diminishing, tumbling faster and faster and faster.

Then, with the months of June and July, Mr. Nix was given very little more time in which to speculate about life, women, and his wife. Everything in his business affairs became so complicated that his life extended into a real struggle for existence. He had the sense that Hortons, which had hitherto shown him a kindly, friendly face, was suddenly hostile, as though it said to him: "Well, I've stood your hanky-panky long enough. I'll have no more of it. I'm finished with your management of me!"

Strange how a building suddenly decides to fall to pieces! Hortons so decided. Every window, every door, every pipe, every chimney misbehaved; tenants appeared from all sides bitterly complaining. Servants rioted; the discontent that was already flooding the world poured through the arteries of the building, sweeping it, deluging.

Mr. Nix showed them the character that he had. He took off his coat and set to work. He was no longer the round ball-like little man with the cherubic countenance and the amiable smile. He was stern, autocratic, unbending. He argued, persuaded, advised. He wrote, to his own surprise, a very stiff letter to the Board of Directors, telling them that they must understand that times were difficult. Rome wasn't built in a day, and that if they were dissatisfied with him they must find someone else in his place. To his amazement, he received a very polite letter from the Secretary of the Board, saying that the Directors were thoroughly satisfied with him and had no complaints.

He went on during that month from struggle to struggle. He forgot Harry; he puzzled no longer about Mrs. Nix. He was so tired when night came that he slept the sleep of a drugged man. He no longer saw the dancing balls. He was invigorated, uplifted, desperately excited. He found in himself a capacity for organisation that he had never suspected. He discovered that it delighted him to meet and to conquer his servants. He saw in their eyes, and he was delighted to see it, their own astonishment at this new character that he was developing. He browbeat them, told them to go, showed them that they had better stay, held them together and forced them to content. They were afraid of him. By Jove!—They were afraid of him! He looked at himself in the glass. He blessed the crisis that had shown him in his true colours. He contemplated the life of Napoleon....

He went out, and with his own right arm fetched in sulky and wage-demanding workmen. He talked to them and found that there was a great deal to be said on their side.

He began to discover that strange truth that almost everyone was discovering just at this time—namely, that when you read the papers or thought of your fellow human beings in the mass, you hated and despised them, but that, if you talked to any individual, man or woman, you liked and understood them.

Pride grew in his heart, and happiness and contentment.

By the middle of July Hortons was itself again. The crisis was over. Prices were impossible, labour rebellious, the world topsy-turvy, but Hortons was at peace. He sighed, put back his shoulders, patted his little stomach appreciatively, loved all the world and, once again, considered Mrs. Nix.

He would give her now all his time. He would take her out; make her presents; they should have a splendid new life together.

He came back one evening after a successful meeting with the Board, opened his little hall door, hung up his coat, whistling to himself, opened his drawing-room door, saw Mrs. Nix on the red sofa, enveloped in the arms of Harry, who was kissing her ears, her eyes, her mouth.

He saw this, and then he saw the neat little sitting-room sway and heave. A bright blue vase, holding yellow sprays of some dried flower, raced towards him across the mantelpiece, and he stepped back, putting his hand on to a chair behind him to avoid its contact. The room steadied itself and he realised that he felt sick. He put up his hand to his mouth. Then every sensation was swallowed up by a mad, violent anger, an anger that seemed to increase with every wild beat of his heart, as though that heart were, of its own purpose, pounding him on to some desperate act.

Behind his anger he saw the two faces. Nancy was sitting square on the sofa, her hands spread out, plunging deep into the red stuff of the sofa. Harry was standing, his face white, his eyes bewildered and defiant.

"You might at least have locked the door," Mr. Nix said, whispering.

His knees trembled so that he suddenly sat down and stared across at them.

"Why didn't you lock the door?" he repeated. "You knew I'd be coming back."

"Look here ..." Harry began. He stopped, took a pull at himself, straightened his back, stood instinctively as though he were obeying orders—"I love your wife. I've loved her for weeks. Of course, it's all my fault. She doesn't care for me in that way. She's just lonely, that's all."

"Lonely!" said Mr. Nix.

"Yes—lonely! You don't know that you've been neglecting her all this time, do you? But you have! And it's your own fault, all this. Nothing's happened. She'd never deceive you. She's too good for that. But it would be your own fault if she did.... Not that I'm not a cad. Of course I am, coming in and your being such a friend to me and then behaving like this. I'm a cad all right, but you're to blame too. She's the only one who hasn't done any wrong."

Where had Mr. Nix heard all this before? He'd seen it on the stage. Just like this. Exactly. Nevertheless, his anger mounted. He saw the room coloured crimson. He suddenly bounded from his chair and rushed at Harry. He tried to hit him in the face. There was a most ludicrous struggle. The two hot faces were suddenly close to one another. Then a chair fell with a crash, and, as though the noise made both men feel the absurdity of their situation, they withdrew from one another and stood there glaring....

Mr. Nix hated that he should be trembling as he was. Every part of him was shaking, and he was so conscious of this that he wanted to escape and return only when he was calmer.

"Very well ..." he said. "Of course, I know what to do. I hope that I shall never see either of you again."

"One moment." It was his wife's voice, and he turned round surprised that it should sound just as it had always sounded.

That was pathetic, and there was an impulse in him, that he instantly fiercely defeated, to go to her and take her hand.

"One moment," she repeated. "I've got something to say to this." She rose and stood, her hands moving nervously against her dress, her eyes staring straight into her husband's face. "It's quite right that I was kissing Harry, but it isn't right that I love him. I don't love him a bit. I don't love anybody. I'm just sick of men. I've been sick of them a long time. It was just because I didn't feel Harry was a man at all that I let him kiss me. A dog or a baby would have done just as well.... I don't care what you do. You can turn me out. I want to be turned out. I want to be free, I want to be with women, and work on my own, and do sensible things, and have my own life with no men in it.... No men in it anywhere. I've been wanting this for years; ever since the war started. The world's just run for men and you think you're so important that you're everything. But you're not. Not to a woman of my age who's been through it all, and hasn't children. What have I been sitting at home for, waiting for you, seeing after your food, keeping you in a good temper, looking after you? Why should I? I'm myself—not half of you. And Harry too. He was a nice boy at first. But suddenly he wants me to love him, to belong to him, to follow him. Why should I, a boy like that? I want to be with other women, women who understand me, women who know how I feel, women who have their own world and their own life, and are independent of men altogether.... I've wanted to go for months—and now I'm going."

She moved towards the door. The absurdity of what she had said kept him standing there in front of her. She wanted only women! Oh, of course, that was only bluff, put up to carry off a difficult situation.

People did not want their own sex—a man for a woman, a woman for a man. That was the way the world went, and it was right that it should be so.

Nevertheless, her words had had behind them a strange ring of conviction. He stared at her in his round, puzzled, solid way. He did not move from where he was, and she could not reach the door without brushing against him, so she also stayed.

Another mood came to her. "Oh! I'm so sorry ..." she said. "I've done very wrong to hurt you. You've always done your very best, but it was over—you and I—so long ago. Long, long before Lance was killed!"

"Over?" he repeated.

"Yes, over—men never know unless it's worth some woman's while to tell them."

Harry's voice broke in.

"I'd better go.... I ought to ... I mustn't...." He murmured something more, but they neither of them noticed him. They were intent upon one another. He left the room.

Mr. Nix stared desolately around him. "I don't know what to do," he repeated to himself. "I don't know what to do."

She sighed as she might have done with a child who was trying her.

"We've both got to think it out," she said. "I'm glad now that it's happened. It ends all that falseness. I'll talk it over with you as long as you like."

She moved forward; he stood aside and she left the room. He sat down on the red sofa and stayed there, until late into the night, trying to puzzle out his position. Sometimes, in his distress, he spoke to himself aloud.

"That's what it is ... the world's changed. Entirely changed. Women don't want men any more. But that's awful! They can't get on alone. Nancy can't get on alone. She thinks she can, but she can't. She gets taken in by the first silly boy that comes along. I believe she cares for Harry more than she said.... She must.... She wouldn't have let him kiss her...."

And that was the first thing that he found in the voyage of mental discovery that he was now making—namely, that he couldn't be jealous of Harry if he tried. His anger had left him. There was nothing in that. He knew it absolutely. Nancy had spoken the truth when she had said that she didn't care for that boy any more than for a dog or a baby. No, he felt no jealousy, and now, oddly enough, no anger.

But he did not know how he felt. He did not know what to do. Again he saw the golden balls tossing in the air above him, and there was she, alluring, glittering, tumbling, escaping.

He thought, with a smile of contempt, of his conquest of Hortons. That was no achievement. But this, this new woman, this new Nancy, here was something.

He slept that night on the sofa, taking off his coat and wrapping a rug around him. He slept the slumber of the dead.

Next day they had only one talk together, and that a very little one. Suddenly after breakfast she turned round upon him.

"Well," she said, "what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," he answered, and then because he felt that she would despise him for being so indeterminate, he went on, "It doesn't matter about Harry. I was only angry for a moment seeing you together like that. I know that you don't care for him. It was what you said afterwards—about not caring for me any more. Did you mean that?"

"Why no," she answered, "I never said that. Of course I care for you. How could it be otherwise after all these years? But I don't want to give up my whole life to you any more. I don't love you. I haven't loved you for years. I think Lance took all the love I had after he was born. And so I don't want to be always with you. Why should I be? Men when they are friends aren't always together. I want to be free, to do some of the things independent women are doing. There are so many things women can do now. I see no reason for our staying always together. I don't want to stay with anyone always."

"Then you don't love me any more?"

"No, of course I don't—and you don't love me. You know that. For ever so long now you haven't felt anything about me at all. You've pretended to because you thought it was right, but I've been a shadow to you."

She was so right that he could only stare dumbly at her wisdom.

"You're not a shadow any longer," he said.

She laughed.

"That's only because we've just had a scene. I shall be a shadow again in a day or two."

They waited. At last he said, "Well, you won't go at once, will you? Please, promise me that. Stay until we've straightened everything out. Promise me."

She shook her head.

"No, I'll promise nothing any more. I should only break my promises. But I'll tell you before I'm going."

There began then for him the strangest time. Slowly an entirely new woman stole into his life, a woman whom he did not know at all, a creation as strange and novel as though he had but now met her for the first time. Every evening, when he returned to the flat, it was with the expectation of finding her gone. He questioned her about nothing. She continued as she had done before to look after the flat and his clothes and his food. He did not touch her; he did not kiss her. They sat in the evening in their little sitting-room reading. They discussed the events of the day.

Soon he realised that it was beginning to be a passionate determination with him that he must keep her. He did not know how to set about it. He found that he was beginning to woo her again, to woo her as he had never wooed anybody before. He did not let her see it. He fancied that he was the last word in tact. One evening he brought her some roses. He tried to speak casually about it. His voice trembled. One night he kissed her, but very indifferently as though he were thinking of other things.

And how mysterious she was becoming to him! Not in the old way. He could not believe that there had ever been a time when he had known her so well that he could not see her. He saw her continually now, through all his work, through every moment of the day. His heart beat when he thought of her. He would wait for a moment outside the door in the evening, his hands trembling with the thought that he might look inside and find her gone.

He never questioned her now as to where she went, but he was forced to admit that she did not go out any more than she had done in the old days. It was strange when you came to think of it, that she had not followed up more completely her fine declaration of independence.

They went one evening to a theatre, together. They sat close to one another in the dark, and he longed to take her hand, but did not dare. He felt like a boy again, and she was surely young too—younger than he had ever known her.

There were times when he fancied that after all she was quite contented with her domesticity. But he did not dare to believe that. If he once caught the golden ball and held it, what would happen?

There came at last an evening when imprudence overcame him. He caught her in his arms and kissed her—kissed her as he had not done for years. The first wonderful thing that he knew was that she responded, responded with all the passion of their first days of courtship.

He heard her murmur:

"Poor old Sam—you poor, blind, silly old Sam."

A moment later she was out of his arms and across the floor.

"But don't imagine," she cried, "that I'm sure that I'm going to stay. I may be off at any minute. This very night perhaps!"

He was alone staring at the closed door. The golden balls were still dancing. He wanted to follow her. He got up. He stopped. He had a moment of intense disappointment.

Then—"By Jove, I believe I'm glad. I don't want to be sure of her. I hope I'll never be sure of her again!"

And on that flash of self-realisation he began his new life.