_Dear, Dear Stephen,--I am furious, I hate myself. What can I have been doing all this time? I have thought of you often, but my marriage and all the new life have made me selfish, and always I put off writing to you because I thought the quiet hour would come to me--and it has never come. But I have no excuse--except that in the real part of myself I love you, just the same as ever--and it will be always the same. I have been bewildered, I think, by all the things that have happened to me during this last year--but I will never be bewildered again. Write to me from Spain and then as soon as you come back I will make amends for my wickedness. I am now and always, Your loving Peter._

Mr. Zanti took the letter.

"How is he?" asked Peter.

"I found 'im--down in Treliss. He wasn't 'appy. 'E was thinking of that woman. And then 'e was all alone. 'E got some work at a farm out at Pendragon and 'e was just goin' there when I came along and made 'im come to Spain. 'E was thinkin' of you a lot, Peter."

Mr. Zanti cast one more look round the room. "Pretty," he said. "Pretty.

But not my sort of place. Too many walls--all too close in."

In the hall he said once more--a little plaintively:--

"I _should_ like to see your lady, Peter," and then he went on hurriedly, "But don't you go and disturb her--not for anything--_I_ understand...."

And, with his finger on his lip, wrapt in the deepest mystery, he departed into the rain.

As the door closed behind him, Peter felt a wave of chill, unhappy loneliness. He turned back into the cheerful little hall and heard Clare singing upstairs. He knew that they were going to have a delightful little dinner, that, afterwards, they would be at a party where every one would be pleased to see them--he knew that the evening in front of him should be wholly charming ... and yet he was uneasy. He felt now as though he ought to resign his evening, climb to his little room and work at "The Stone House." And yet what connection could that possibly have with Mr. Zanti?

His uneasiness had begun, he thought, after his visit to Brockett's. It seemed to him as he went upstairs to dress that the world was too full of too many things and that his outlook on it all was confused.

Throughout dinner this uneasiness remained with him. Had he been less occupied with his own thoughts he would have noticed that Clare was not herself; at first she talked excitedly without waiting for his answers--there were her usual enthusiasms and excitements. Everything in the day's history had been "enchanting" or "horrible," as a rule she waited for him to act up to her ecstasies and abhorrencies; to-night she talked as though she had no audience but were determined to fill up time. Then suddenly she was silent; her eyes looked tired and into them there crept a strange secret little shudder as though she were afraid of some thought or mysterious knowledge. She looked now like a little girl who knew, that to-morrow--the inevitable to-morrow--she must go to the dentist's to be tortured.

The last part of the meal was passed in silence. Afterwards she came into his study and sat curled upon the floor at his feet watching him smoke.

She thought as she looked up at him, that something had happened to make him younger. She had never seen him as young as he was to-night--and then because his thoughts were far away and because her own troubled her she made a diversion. She said:--

"Who _was_ that extraordinary man you were talking to this evening?"

He came back, with a jerk, from Stephen.

"What man?"

"Why the man with all the black hair and a funny squash hat. I saw Sarah let him in."

"Ah, that," said Peter, looking down at her tenderly, "that was a great friend of mine."

She moved her head away.

"Don't touch my hair, Peter--it's all been arranged for the party. A friend of yours? What! That horrible looking man? Oh! I suppose he was one of those dreadful people you knew in the slums or in Cornwall."

Peter saw Mr. Zanti's dear friendly face, like a moon, staring at him, and heard his warm husky voice: "Peter, my boy...."

He moved a little impatiently.

"Look here, old girl, you mustn't call him that. He's one of the very best friends I've ever had--and I've been rather pulled up lately--ever since that night you sent me to Brockett's. I've felt ashamed of myself.

All my happiness and--you--and everything have made me forget my old friends and that won't do."

She laughed. "And now I suppose you're going to neglect me for them--for horrid people like that man who came to-night."

Her voice was shaking a little--he saw that her hands were clenched on her lap. He looked down at her in astonishment.

"My dear Clare, what do you mean? How could you say a thing like that even in jest? You know--"

She broke in upon him almost fiercely--"It wasn't jest. I meant what I said. I hate all these earlier people you used to know--and now, after our being so happy all this time, you're going to take them up again and make the place impossible--"

"Look here, Clare, you mustn't speak of them like that--they're my friends and they've got to be treated as such." His voice was suddenly stern. "And by the way as we are talking about it I don't think it was very kind of you to tell me nothing at all about poor Norah's being so ill. She asked you to tell me and you never said a word. That wasn't very kind of you."

"I did speak to you about it but you forgot--"

"I don't think you did--I am quite sure that I should not have forgotten--"

"Oh, of course you contradict me. Anyhow there's no reason to drag Norah Monogue into this. The matter is perfectly clear. I will not have dirty old men like that coming into the house."

"Clare, you shall not speak of my friends--"

"Oh, shan't I? When I married you I didn't marry all your old horrid friends--"

"Drop it, Clare--or I shall be angry--"

She sprang to her feet, faced him. He had never in his life seen such fury. She stood with her little body drawn to its full height, her hands clenched, her breast heaving under her white evening dress, her eyes glaring--

"You shan't! You shan't! I won't have any of them here. I hate Cornwall and all its nasty people and I hate Brockett's and all those people you knew there. When you married me you gave them all up--all of them. And if you have them here I won't stay in the house--I'll leave you. All that part of your life is nothing to do with me. _Nothing_--and I simply won't have it. You can do what you like but you choose between them and me--you can go back to your old life if you like but you go without me!"

She burst from the room, banging the door behind her. She had behaved exactly like a small child in the nursery. As he looked at the door he was bewildered--whence suddenly had this figure sprung? It was some one whom he did not know. He could not reconcile it with the dignified Clare, proud as a queen, crossing a ball-room or the dear beloved Clare nestling into a corner of his arm-chair, her face against his, or the gentle friendly Clare listening to some story of distress.

The fury, the tempest of it! It was as though everything in the room had been broken. And he, with his glorious, tragical youth felt that the end of the world had come. This was the conclusion of life--no more cause for living, no more friendship or comfort or help anywhere. Clare had said those things to him. He stood, for ten minutes there, in the middle of the room, without moving--his face white, his eyes full of pain.

Sarah came to tell him that the hansom was there. He moved into the hall with the intention of sending it away; no party for him to-night--when, to his amazement he saw Clare coming slowly down the stairs, her cloak on, buttoning her gloves.

She passed him without a word and got into the hansom. He took his hat and coat, gave the driver the address, and climbed in beside her.

Once as they drove he put out his hand, touched her dress and said--"Clare dear--"

She made no reply, but sat looking, with her eyes large and black in her little white face, steadfastly in front of her.

III

Lady Luncon was a rich, good-natured woman who had recently published a novel and was anxious to hear it praised, therefore she gave a party.

Originally a manufacturer's daughter, she had conquered a penniless baronet--spent twenty years in the besieging of certain drawing-rooms and now, tired of more mundane worlds, fixed her attention upon the Arts. She was a completely stupid woman, her novel had been exceedingly vulgar, but her good heart and a habit of speaking vaguely in capital letters secured her attention.

When Clare and Peter arrived people were filling her drawing-rooms, overflowing on to the stairs and pouring into the supper room. Some one, very far away, was singing "Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix," a babel of voices rose about Clare and Peter on every side, every one was flung against every one; heat and scent, the crackle and rustle of clothes, the soft voices of the men and sharp strident voices of the women gave one the sensation of imminent suffocation; people with hot red faces, unable to move at all, flung agonised glances at the door as though the entrance of one more person must mean death and disaster.

There were, Peter soon discovered, three topics of conversation: one was their hostess' novel and this was only discussed when Lady Luncon was herself somewhere at hand--the second topic concerned the books of somebody who had, most unjustly it appeared, been banned by the libraries for impropriety, and here opinions were divided as to whether the author would gain by the advertisement or lose by loss of library circulation. Thirdly, there was a new young man who had written a novel about the love affairs of a crocus and a violet--it was amazingly improper, full of poetry--"right back," as somebody said "to Nature."

Moreover there was much talk about Form. "Here is the new thing in fiction that we are looking for ..." also "Quite a young man--oh yes, only about eighteen and so modest. You would never think...."

His name was Rondel and Peter saw him, for a moment, as the crowds parted, standing, with a tall, grim, elderly woman, apparently his mother, beside him. He was looking frightened and embarrassed and stood up straight against the wall as though afraid lest some one should come and snatch him away.

But Peter saw the world in a dream. He walked about, with Clare beside him, and talked to many people; then she was stopped by some one whom she knew and he went on alone. Now there had come back to him the old terror. If he went back, after this was over, and Clare was still angry with him, he did not know what he would do. He was afraid....