i must be cruel only to be kind.

it is not your deep person who succeeds in carrying out a set purpose, but one who is just profound enough to be fathomed of the multitude. for, after all, the multitude is ready enough to help, in a casual, parenthetic way, in the furtherance of a design; and a little depth, serving to flatter that vanity which taketh delight in a sense of superior perspicacity, only adds to the zest. there are plenty of people ready to pull on a rope or shove at a wheel, but there are more eager to do so if they are offered the direction of affairs.

mrs. glynde was one of those easily-fathomed persons who often succeed in their designs by the very transparency of their method. she had come to london with the purpose of leaving dora there under the care of her sister lady mazerod, and before she had talked to that amiable widow for half an hour the design was as apparent as if it had been spoken.

in due course dora and miss mazerod renewed a childish love, and at the end of april mr. and mrs. glynde went back to stagholme alone. it is probable that neither mrs. glynde nor providence could have chosen a better companion for dora at this time than edith mazerod. there was a breezy simplicity about this young lady's view of life which seemed to have the power of simplifying life itself. there are some people like this to whom is vouchsafed a limited comprehension of evil and an unlimited belief in good. a very shrewd author, who is, perhaps, not so much read to-day as he ought to be, said that “to the pure all things are pure.” he often said less than he meant. for he knew as well as we do that the pure-minded are just so many moral filters who clear the atmosphere and take no harm themselves.

dora glynde required some one like this; for she had, as the french say, “found herself.” the little world of stagholme—the world of this record—was intensely human. there was nobody very good in it and nobody very bad. jem, with that quicker perception of evil which is wisely included in the mental outfit of men, had warned her against sister cecilia. and she had begun to understand his meaning now. mrs. agar she had found out for herself. her father she respected and loved, but she had reached that age wherein we discover that father and mother are but as other men and women. her mother she loved with that half-patronising affection which is found where a daughter is mentally superior.

the only person whom she had ever really respected and looked up to without reserve was jem.

altogether life was too complicated, subtle, difficult, hopeless, when edith mazerod came into it, and by her presence seemed to clear the atmosphere of daily existence.

at first the constant round of visiting and gaiety was a supreme effort; then came tolerance, and finally that business-like acceptance which is mistaken by many for enjoyment. the human machine is not constructed to go always at high pressure, either in happiness or in misery. we cannot exist all day and all night with a living care on our shoulders—the greatest misery slips off-sometimes. with men it can be lubricated by hard work, and likewise by alcohol, but the latter method is not always to be advised. with women there is much consolation to be extracted from a new dress or several new dresses and a hat. even a new pair of gloves may help a breaking heart, and a glass of bitter beer taken at the right moment (with or without faith) has power to change a man's view of life.

so dora, who had at no time been tragic, began to find that academy soirées and similar entertainments assisted her in preserving towards the world that attitude which she had elected to assume. and if there be any who blame her, they are at liberty to do so. it is not worth while to pause for the purpose of writing—on the ground or elsewhere—for their edification.

only one such alleviation did she repent of in after life. the day after the academy soirée the mazerods took her to hurlingham. and hurlingham became one of the pages of her life which she would have wished to tear completely out.

when they drove in through the simple gateway and round by the winding drive, it was evident that a great afternoon was to be expected. the blue-and-white club flag fluttered over a pavilion crammed from roof to terrace. the teams were already out in their bright colours, curveting about, each with a practice ball, on their stiff little ponies, moving with that singular cramped action only seen on the polo ground.

it was one of those brilliant days in early may when only gardeners, grumbling, talk or think of rain. a few fleecy white clouds seemed painted. so motionless were they, on the sky, reproducing the hurlingham colours far above the ground. a gentle breeze coming up from the river brought with it the odour of lilac and budding things.

the chairs were crowded with a well-dressed throng, the larger majority of which seemed to be unaware that polo was the object of the afternoon.

the mazerods and dora had scarcely taken chairs when arthur agar presented himself. his tailor had apparently told him that after a lapse of six months it was permissible to assume habiliments of a slightly resigned tenour. his grey suit was one of the most elegant on the ground, his suède gloves fitted perfectly, his tie was unique. and arthur agar was as happy as the best-dressed girl there.

the reception accorded him was not exactly enthusiastic. having in view the fact that the young man called jack was entirely satisfactory, lady mazerod treated all other young men with indifference. edith despised arthur agar because jack was athletic in his tendencies; and dora was sorry to see him, because she had not answered his three last letters. there were also numerous small but expensive presents for which she had failed to tender thanks.

unfortunately the young man called jack turned up at tea-time, carrying one of the heavy chairs, which never fail to spoil the gloves of some of us, with unconscious ease. owing to the activity and enterprise of this young gentleman, tea was soon procured, and consequently despatched before the interval was over and before the band had wet its whistle with something of a different nature from that in vogue on the lawn. a stroll through the gardens was proposed, and lady mazerod sent the young people off alone. there was no choice; but dora had probably no thought of making a choice, had such been offered to her. she, like many another young lady, erred in placing too great a confidence in her own powers of staving things off.

there was no doubt whatever about edith and the energetic john. they led the way round by the river path and the tennis-courts with a sublime disregard for the eye of the multitude, leaving dora and arthur to follow at such speed as their discretion might dictate.

before they had left the tennis-lawn arthur plunged. it may have been the desperation of diffidence, or perhaps that the new grey suit and the unique tie lent him confidence. one sees a young lady completely carried off her mental status by the success of a dress or the absence of a dreaded competitor, and arthur agar had enough of the woman in him to give way to this dangerous vertigo.

“dora,” he said, “you have not answered my last three letters.”

“no,” she replied, “because they struck me as a little ridiculous.”

“ridiculous!” he repeated, with such sincere dismay that she was moved to compassion. “ridiculous, dora, why?”

his horror-struck, almost tearful voice gave her a pang of self-reproach, as if she had struck some defenceless dumb animal.

“well, there were things in them that i did not understand.”

“but i could make you understand them,” he said, with a sudden self-assertion which startled her. the weakest man is, after all, a man—so far as women are concerned.

“i think you had better not,” she said, hurrying her steps.

but he refused to alter his pace, and he disregarded her warning.

“they meant,” he said, “that i wanted you to know that i love you.”

there was a little pause. dora was struck dumb by a chill sense of foreboding. it was like a momentary glance into a future full of trouble.

“i am sorry,” she said, “for that. i hope—that you may find that it is a mistake.”

“but it is not a mistake. i don't see why it should be one.”

dora paused. she was afraid to strike. she did not know yet that it is less cruel to be cruel at once.

“it is best to look at these things practically,” she said. “and if we look at it practically we shall find that you and i are not at all likely to be happy together.”

“however i look at it, i only see that i should never be happy without you.”

“then, arthur, you are not looking at it practically.”

“no, and i don't want to,” he replied doggedly.

“that is a mistake. a little bit of life may not be practical, but all the rest of it is; and for the gratification of that little bit, there is all the rest to be lived through.”

arthur looked puzzled. he rearranged the orchid in his coat before replying. he had found time to think of the orchid.

“i don't understand all that,” he said. “i only know that i love you, and that i should be miserable without you. besides, if that little bit is love—i suppose you admit there is such a thing as love?”

dora winced. she was looking through the trees across the peaceful evening river.

“yes,” she answered gently. “i suppose so.”

arthur agar had been brought up in an atmosphere of futile discussion, but he had never wanted anything in vain. there are women—fools—who dare to bring up children thus in a world where wanting in vain is the chief characteristic of daily life. arthur was ready enough to go on discussing his future thus, but never doubted that it would all come to his desire in the end. he was like a woman in so much as he failed to understand an argument which he could not meet.

they walked on amidst the flowering shrubs, and dora was filled with a disquieting sense of having failed to convince him.

“i do not want to hurry you,” said arthur presently, with a maddening equanimity. “you can give me your answer some other time.”

“but i have given it now.”

arthur was engaged in taking off his hat to a passing lady, and made no acknowledgment of this.

“everybody at home would be pleased,” he observed, after a pause occupied by the adjustment of his hat. “they all want it.”

it was not that he refused to take no when it was given to him, but rather that he did not recognise it, never having encountered it before.

they were now coming round by the pigeon-shooting enclosure, and the strains of the band announced that the interval for tea had elapsed.

in the distance lady mazerod and edith, attended by the indefatigable jack, were keeping a chair for dora. she slackened her pace. to her the knowledge had come that the difficulties of life have usually to be met single-handed. she was not afraid of arthur, but this was a distinct difficulty because of the influence he had at his back.

“arthur,” she said, “i think we had better understand each other now. it may save us both something in the future. i cannot help feeling rather sorry that i must say no. every girl must feel that. i do not know from whence the feeling comes. it is a sort of regret, as if something good and valuable were being wasted. but, arthur, it is no, and it must always be no. i am not the sort of person to change.”

“i suppose,” he replied, en vrai fils de sa mère, “that there is some one else?”

he turned as he spoke, but dora's parasol was too quick for him.

“please do not let us be like people in books,” she said. “there is no necessity to go into side issues at all. you have asked me to marry you. i can never marry you. there is the whole question and the whole answer. i say nothing to you about finding somebody worthier, or any nonsense of that sort. please spare me the usual—impertinences—about there being somebody else.”

the word found its mark. arthur agar caught his breath, but made no answer.

they were among the well-dressed throng now crowding back to the chairs.

when arthur had handed dora over to the care of lady mazerod he lifted his hat and took his departure with that perfect savoir faire which was his forte.