odd thing! the rain nosed out by the man of weather came to pass. but it delayed for a week or more, which was time enough for many other prophecies to be fulfilled. when, however, it did come it struck her imagination. she awoke late from a night of deep sleep to hear it thudding on roof and balcony and to see, when she looked out, the heavy trees of berkeley-square streaming like waterweed under a sluice. here and there a cruising hansom thrashed a way through, now and again a milk-cart. the butcher-boys wore their baskets on their heads. her first conscious thought was of senhouse, bare-crested to the wild weather. it would be wild in the open, and, of course, he was in the open. on some wide common, perhaps, facing the gale, with the rolling collar of his jersey flacking like ship’s cordage. ah, to be there with him, sharing the joy of battle!

it was with a sense of suddenly leaving the wholesome, great air for that of a hot-house that she turned to her breakfast tray and pile of letters. she picked up the first of them; the hand was tristram’s. a letter from him, and a visit, were now daily events. a letter to him, also, must be written daily, and somehow delivered.

this one was cavalier in tone. “sweetheart,—i must see you, if only to arrange how best we may meet. what a storm last night! but what a clear blue promise before us! i shall be in the burlington arcade—gardens end—at noon. come.” “tr.”

even she, never yet free from her early subjection to him, felt that this was not how lovers write to their sovereign ladies. an assignation—and in such a place—proposed to mrs. germain! she coloured high and clear. he had done what she could never have believed possible; he had really offended her. nothing in the whole world could have persuaded her to go.

but by-and-by that sophistry which is ever at hand to clinch a woman’s argument the way she wants it to travel, modified her view, suggested a duty. insolent, arrogant, exorbitant lover that he was, he must be taught his place. he should see her inaccessible; he should see her cold profile as she drove by him without so much as a turn of the head. perhaps then he would know that she was not a village girl at his disposal. perhaps. thus, at least, she reasoned—and thus she did. the brougham was ordered for a quarter to twelve—she kept it fifteen minutes, and then gave the order, “bank.” her bank was that of england, and stands in burlington gardens.

she had no real errand there, but she feigned one. a cheque was to be cashed. the footman was to take it—and even as she gave it him she saw tristram at the mouth of the arcade—in an overcoat to his ankles, his wet umbrella in his hand.

she sat rigid in her place, wide-eyed for events. while looking at musters’s careful back it was perfectly possible to see her lover at his post. he was watching her intently, she knew; but he did not move. he did not intend to go a step out of his way to meet her. true, he had walked to the arcade—he, who lived in the albany! a most cavalier lover, this.

the game went on . . . the minutes passed. the footman came back with her money and waited for orders. she named a shop—a jeweller’s close by, in vigo-street. jinny middleham was to be married, to a mr. podmore, a clergyman, and must have a present. how happily things turned out; the cheque would serve. the touch of musters’s whip caused the hoofs to clatter on the asphalt; the brougham lunged forward and swept her by the shameful trysting-place. she peered sideways as she passed; duplessis, looking full upon her, did not even lift his hat. nor, during the hour she spent, fingering enamels, rivières, and rings, did he appear at the shop-door. when she went by the arcade on her return he was not there. she felt strongly the sensation of escape, and was surprised to be so free from disappointment. senhouse came back to his own place in her thoughts—he and the wind on the heath. both good things.

but in the afternoon, at about six o’clock, her cavalier was ushered into her drawing-room, where she sat alone, and stood by the door looking at her until the man had gone out. then he crossed the room quickly, came straight to her, knelt, took both her hands and kissed them.

he humbled himself. she hardly knew him for the same man. and he did the thing handsomely, too, named himself grievous things, exalted her, wouldn’t hear of any excuse. her generosity, easily moved, was all on his side in a few minutes. she could not hear him accuse himself. perhaps he had been thoughtless; but she had had no right, she said, to be so angry.

finally, she wouldn’t listen. “if you go on talking so wildly,” she told him, “i shall begin to think you don’t mean it.” and then he did explain.

it appeared that there had been reason in what he had proposed. a certain delicacy taught him that he could not continue calling at the house after what had happened. that could hardly fail to appease her. his seeming insult, then, had really been intensely prompted by his fear of insulting her. she considered this with hanging head.

“mind you, molly,” he went on, being master of her hand, “i can’t withdraw one word of what was forced out of me that night; i can’t wish undone one single act. i adore you, and i must tell you so; i love you, and must show my love.” here he kissed her. “the question is, how and when am i to see you. see you i must and will. i wanted to talk to you about that—and how was i to do it? would you have had me ask you to my rooms?”

it did occur to her here that a better place could have been found, since they met most nights in the week in somebody’s house; but she put the cavil by as unworthy. since he was in her husband’s house, however, not disturbed unduly by the delicacy which had troubled him overnight, it would be as well to hear what he suggested.

“i’m not going to be unreasonable,” he told her; “i shall settle down presently, and things will jog along, no doubt, for a bit. but at this moment, when i have just won you—after two years, molly, after two years—i must have you more or less alone for a few days. upon my soul, i think you owe me that.”

he made her feel that she really did; but he frightened her, too. she looked quickly into his face, where he knelt gazing at hers. “you must tell me what you mean,” she said. “i don’t understand. alone? for a few days? that is surely impossible.”

he explained with eagerness. “of course, of course! don’t, for god’s sake, misunderstand. i would not ask you to do anything which would cause you discomfort. heaven forbid. i said, ‘more or less alone.’ isn’t that plain enough? if i can’t see you here, it can only be at some of these infernal crowds we all flock to—and how can we be sure of a moment there? look here, my dearest, think of this plan. i should like you to go and stay with your people for a bit.”

that did sound feasible. her quick mind jumped after his instantly. “my people?” she said, wondering. “yes, i should love to see them all again. jinny, my sister, is going to be married. i should have gone for that in any event. yes, of course, i could go there if——”

he poured out his plans. she should go to blackheath at once, and he would take her down, leave her at the door. he should take rooms in greenwich: there was an hotel there, not bad at all. you looked over the river; the shipping was magnificent. every day he would meet her somewhere—they would both be unknown. every day they would spend together: greenwich park, the river; they could sail to the nore, round the mouse. it would be heaven, he said. and then he pleaded—his love, his misery, his longing. “without you i’m a lost soul, mary; if i’m worth saving, come and save me. in the sight of heaven you were mine on the day i kissed you first. do you remember when that was? how long ago? do you think i have forgotten it? never, never. that kiss sealed you mine—mine for ever. and what am i asking of you now? a few days’ human companionship—a sop which you are to throw to a starving man. haven’t you charity enough for that? ah, but i see that you have—you can’t hide it from me.” she could not.

he went on from strength to strength. “i save the proprieties by this plan; i secure you absolutely from prying eyes and profane tongues. you will have your people, your mother, to fall back upon if i could be—if you could fear me scoundrel enough—my beloved! i wrong you to name such a thought. you may disapprove of me—you may be hurt—god forgive me! by things that i say, do, look. they are things wrung from me by this throttling passion—for three years i have been gripped by the throat. ah, and it must end, or be the end of me! well—molly, look at me. what will you tell me?”

she did look at him then—for one dewy moment. pity, kindness, infinite wistfulness, pride—mingled in the fire, melted, and lay gleaming in her eyes. wonderingly she searched his face, ready to quail before the savagery she expected to read there; but he was wise—she could find nothing there but honesty, frank and manly desire; for he saw to it that she should not. before she turned her head she had given him her hand. he stooped and kissed it softly; then went away.

before dinner she went to her husband in the library where he sat, with his reading-lamp, blue-books, and spectacles. “come in,” he had called in answer to her knock, but did not turn when she entered. as she approached his desk, approached his studious back, she felt like a school-girl, coming to ask if she might leave early—with a fibbing reason for the teacher, which disguised the secret, fearful joy of the real reason. the school-girl showed in every halting word, in every flicker of the covering eyelids. . . .

“i was going to ask you—would you mind if i were to go to my people for a few days—soon? would you be able to spare me, do you think?”

he turned quickly, hurt by her meekness. “my love! of course! can you ask me such things?”

she could not afford tenderness from him just now. she took a business-like tone.

“my sister is to be married shortly, as you know. there is a good deal to do. i could help mother, you know. jinny is staying with mr. podmore’s family.”

he nodded approvingly. “quite so, quite so. it would be only kind. you have engagements, no doubt—but nothing pressing, i suppose. have we not people here, by the way?”

“not until the 26th. this is the 11th.”

“yes, yes, my dear. make whatever arrangements suit you. when do you think of going?”

“i thought, the day after to-morrow. but——”

“well, my love?”

“i should not care to go, if i thought—that you might want me.”

he turned to his desk. “want you!” he said under his breath. “want you!” so careful was he that she could never have guessed the bitterness of that soft cry.

but she lingered yet. “of course—it is quite close to town. you could write—or telegraph—i could come in a moment.”

“yes, my dear one, yes,” he said, his face averted. “it would be easy enough. but i am not likely to disturb you in your happiness.”

this would never do. “it would be my duty to come.”

he groaned. “oh, my dearest, spare me!”

she must misconstrue that, or she must fail; she must gulp it down, and she did—but it turned her sick.

“thank you,” she said staidly. “then i will write to mother.” her fingers were within an inch of his shoulder; they hovered over, almost touched it. then she went. he covered his face with his hands. i think he prayed.