"--The which I take to typify a certain temperamental tendency towards the ornate, coupled with a desire to please, and be appreciated by those whom Providence has appointed lords among us, against which tendency all the restrictions of that admirable society--"

"Grizel! Idiot! Eat your fish. You talk too much!"

Martin had burst into a roar of laughter, in which Katrine perforce was obliged to join. The Y.W. marched stolidly round the table. She was by no means so dense as she appeared, was perfectly aware that the visitor had been reproved in her absence, and suspected a personal application in the long-winded speech. She disappeared in search of sauce, and to report the progress of events to the eager cook.

"I'll make a compact with you," whispered Grizel eagerly. "I'll talk like a tract to the end of my stay, if you can induce her _not_ to puff down my back! Principles I respect, but draughts I abhor. Just make it perfectly clear!" ...

The Y.W. returned, and puffed vigorously the while she handed the sauce, whereat Katrine suffered a moment of acute suspense, but Grizel only wriggled her white shoulders, and remarked sweetly:

"Chill, isn't it, for the time of year!"

Katrine hastily turned the conversation.

"Grizel, did you know that Martin's last book is already in its third edition?"

"No. Is it? How very good."

The words were irreproachable but there was something lacking in the tone. Katrine frowned, Martin looked across the table at the sparkling golden figure, who sat with head on one side, and brows arched, like a penitent child asking for forgiveness. Their eyes met, and he smiled in rea.s.suring sweetness.

"Martin's books are a forbidden topic at Martin's table. After dinner, Grizel, I'll take you to see my roses. They are much more interesting."

"In that dress! In those slippers!" gasped Katrine outraged. As neither of her hearers volunteered a reply she considered the proposition ruled out of court, but after coffee had been served it was necessary to retire to her room to write an order to the stores, and upon her return, lo! the room was empty, the French windows stood apart, and in and out between the bushes of the knoll pa.s.sed a shimmer of golden light.

Katrine's first sensation was one of shocked surprise at the recklessness of garden promenades in a costly new gown, her second an impulse to go out in her turn, and make one of a party to enjoy the fragrant dusk. She had gathered up her skirts, was on the point of stepping through the window, when like a dart came the remembrance of Grizel's words, her avowed dislike to "sharing a man"; of Martin's evident agreement. She drew back, seated herself on the nearest chair, and digested the unwelcome thought.

They would not want her! They had probably chosen the moment when she was out of the room to start on their ramble alone. If she were to join them now, her presence would form the proverbial "trumpery."

Katrine could have understood it, could have sympathised frankly if it had been a case of love; lovers naturally wished to be alone, but Martin and Grizel were merely friends, not even intimate friends, since Grizel's visits had come at long intervals during the past years. They could have no sweet secrets to discuss.

Sitting alone in the room looking out into the dusk, a memory darted back out of the years. Just so had she sat during her first visit to the house, in that brief summer of Martin's wedlock. She had been a young girl then, lately released from school. She recalled anew the loneliness which had fallen upon her, while Martin and Juliet roamed the garden paths, and she sat alone, listening to the soft burst of laughter, watching the flit of the white dress.

A white dress, ghost-like, transparent; a light, slight thing, as befitted the youthful wearer. Grizel's dress was gold; it flashed an opulent orange and red. There was nothing ghostly about it; it was warm, and human, and alive. It drew the eye with an irresistible allure.

How could he! How could he! Along the very paths which he had paced with Juliet. Beside the flowers which her hands had planted! Once again Katrine suffered the pang, the repulsion. All these years she had suffered at the sight of Martin sorrowful and lonely, now--mysterious, but incontrovertible fact!--she suffered afresh at the sight of him consoled.

Without, in the garden, Grizel was flitting from tree to tree like a big gold moth, bending her head to drink in the heavy perfume. The curve of the neck, the curve of the cheek half hidden against the leaves, the reed-like figure bent low from the waist, they were the very epitome of grace.

"Martin! Martin! I must have some of these to take up to my room.

There's magic in the scent of red roses... real country roses, living on their own stems. It has something different from all other scents.

These are the trees which little Juliet planted? How sweet she was that day, when they were planted, and she was so happy, so dirty, like a pretty child in her big pinafore! They _ought_ to be sweet!"

Martin winced. He did not reply, but taking a knife from his pocket cut off one or two of the best blooms, carefully pruning the thronged stems.

For the first months after Juliet's death her name had been continually on his lips, he had loved to talk about her, to hear her discussed; later on the reference had become rarer, more strained; now for years it had been avoided as elaborately as though it had belonged to a criminal, a prodigal. The young fair face still hung on the walls, but in the house where she had lived no one mentioned Juliet's name. Only Grizel, an outsider, talked of her still, naturally, simply, with a transparent pleasure in the remembrance.

Martin was not sure whether the reference more pleased or jarred. Yes!

he remembered! He should never forget that bright autumn day, the laughing crowd of spectators, the picture of his girl wife in her short garden skirt, waving her spade in triumph. He could never forget, but the personal significance had faded. There seemed little connection between himself and that boyish bridegroom; it was an effort to realise that that sweet child had truly been his wife.

The present moment seemed far more real, more vital. Himself, the man, occupied with the matured work of life; Grizel, the woman, instinct with the lure of her s.e.x. He held the roses towards her that she might enjoy their fragrance, and for a minute they stood in silence, side by side.

Then Grizel raised her head, and looked into his face with a long, penetrating glance. This was the real moment of their meeting, and both silently recognised it as such.

"How goes it, Martin?" she asked in her soft rich voice. "How goes it?"

"Haltingly, Grizel, haltingly!" his smile flickered, and died out.

"We'll talk of that presently; you are the one person to whom I _can_ talk on that subject, but first of all there is something else.

Prisoner at the Bar.--_Why don't you like my book_?"

His voice was gentle, bantering, almost tender in tone. There was not the faintest touch of offence, but Grizel's discomfiture was as naive and undisguised as that of a child.

"Martin! you said that we were not to discuss--"

"Not in public; not at meals, not even before Katrine, but certainly when we are alone. There's no getting out of it, Grizel. You said nothing, it was only a tone, but as it happens I understand your tones.

The book may run through a dozen editions, but for you it has failed.

Why?"

She stood before him, slim and straight, her face puckered in thought.

"I--don't--know! Everything,--or was it nothing, Martin?"

"Can I help you to find out? A few leading questions perhaps... Is it clever?"

"Very clever."

"Original?"

"Original!"

"Interesting?"

"Quite interesting."

"Clever, original, and interesting, and already in its third edition!

What would you have more, Mistress Critic?"

Grizel lifted her right hand, and lightly tapped her heart.

"Clever, interesting, original, but it didn't _touch_! The craft is good, Martin; you are a skilful workman--I think you grow more and more skilful, but--"

"Go on, Grizel; don't be afraid. Tell me the whole truth."

Grizel faced him in silence. It was not often that so grave and thoughtful an air was seen upon her sparkling face. Her eyes gazed past his, far away into the night.

"Once," she said dreamily, "there was a painter. He painted marvellous pictures, but it was the depth and tone of his colouring which made him celebrated over all the world. And of all his colours there was one in particular which appeared in all his pictures, and the secret of which his fellow-artists tried in vain to discover. It was a red, Martin, a red so rich, so warm, so _kindled_, that all who beheld it felt warmed in their souls, and his fellow-artists questioned and pondered, and tried in vain to produce the same glow upon their own canvases--and the years pa.s.sed, and they grew old and weary, and still they failed. At last one day the great man died, and those who tended him for his burial were amazed to find a wound, an _open_ wound, above his heart. And then at last they understood. The red of his pictures, the glow which had warmed the world, had been painted with his own blood!"

There was silence in the garden. The scent of roses hung heavy upon the air.

"And I," said Martin slowly. "I write in _ink_."

Grizel made no reply. She turned from the rose-bed, and pa.s.sed along a winding path which led round the herbaceous border to the slope of the orchard beyond. It was a narrow path, too narrow for two to walk in line, so that Martin, following, could not see her face. It was like Grizel, he reflected, to have chosen that path at this moment. She divined that he could speak more openly unseen.