He smiled. "That's it exactly. But you won't get that sort of relationship with a man who belongs already to another woman."

"One gets the pretense."

He shook his head. "Not even the pretense. There was a phrase you used about Adair; you said he'd lost his direction. That's true; he has for the moment. Presently he'll refind it and the road leads back to Phyllis. You said something else: you called him a second best. That's all he is, however you take him, whether as a husband, a father or a lover. He lacks earnestness; he has always lacked it. I've been his friend for years; his flabbiness sticks out all over him. But you're not a second best, Mrs. Lockwood. You're a top-notcher--too fine for anything but the best. You really are. You ought to set a higher value on yourself."

She had regained her composure. He showed a willingness to release her hands, but she let them rest where they were like tired birds, while she regarded him with wistful kindness.

"Too fine for anything but the best! It's a long while since I heard any one say that. Reggie used to say it in almost those very words. But then Reggie," she caught her breath at the remembered ecstasy, "Reggie used to think that the sun rose and set for me. He was different from all other men. You advise me to reserve myself for the best. How can I do that, Lord Taborley, when the best is in the past?"

She was very beautiful in the simplicity of her pathos--one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. She had become a little child for the moment and her littleness was baffling. He felt extraordinarily near to her and alone with her. There was no longer any danger in their aloneness. He realized why it was that she was able to give away so much of herself; there was no value in the gift, for her heart was beyond the capture of any man. She was the shuttered house of a vanished happiness, inhabited by a restless ghost. The gold light from the lamp fell in a pool about her. It revealed startlingly the whiteness of her arms and throat, the blueness of her eyes and the primrose gleam of her polished head. She seemed insubstantial as a dream, environed by shadows. And what did she mean by saying that all her best lay in the past? Surely she had misjudged! With her power of charm she could build her world to any pattern.

"The best in the past! None of us know enough about the future to say that. The best lies ahead--always. To believe that brings our best within our grasp."

"For me it can't." She spoke hopelessly. "No believing can do that when your best is dead."

The finality of her despair silenced him. He could feel it like fingers tightening on his throat. He realized in a flash that this was how he, too, would be tempted to speak were he to lose Terry--that, having lost the best, any careless makeshift would suffice to comfort him. While he considered, her hands snuggled closer in his clasp, establishing a new sympathy.

"I think," he said at last, "even though my best were dead, I should try to go on acting as if it lay still ahead. If I did that, round some new turning I might find it waiting for me as a kind of recompense."

She leant forward, peering eagerly into his eyes. "Yes. You would do that. I'm sure of it. I knew you had something to give me the moment we met. That was why I wouldn't let you escape me. I've learnt the secret at last--the secret of your air of conquest. It isn't that you get your desires. It's not that. It's your belief that you will get them that makes you strong."

Somewhere at the back of his head he remembered the pleading of Delilah with Samson, "Tell me, I pray thee, wherein thy great strength lieth."

He laughed. "Perhaps you have guessed. I'm what you might call a round-the-corner person. I have a philosophy all my own; it's a round-the-corner philosophy. I believe that we find everything that we've lost or longed for, if we'll only press on. Everything that we've ever loved or wanted waits for us further up the road, round some hidden turning. It's always further up the road and just out of sight. The whole trick of living is to keep your tail up and march forward with the appearance of success, no matter how badly other people say you've been defeated. More often than not, we're nearer our hidden corners than any of us guess; it's the pluck to struggle the last hundred yards that swings us round the turning and wins our kingdoms for us."

She withdrew her hands and lay back against the cushions. "No amount of courage----" She broke off and tried afresh. "Being brave wouldn't put him again into my arms. You're wondering whom I'm talking about--Reggie Pollock, my only husband. The other two didn't count, any more than Adair counts. I don't say it unkindly. I do want you to believe that.

They were pa.s.sers-by--that was all. They hung their hats in the hall and, somehow, they stopped. They were nice boys, both of them. It seemed a kind of war-work to let them marry me. You see, they needed me; so when they said they loved me, I didn't have the heart to turn them out.

I suppose I was too amiable. But they didn't count--not at all."

"The war's over," Tabs reminded her with quiet humor. "How long is this amiability going to last?"

She smiled dreamily. "Adair again! You don't leave him alone for long.

If you think that I ever let him make love to me, you're mistaken. It's only that he's unhappy and I can do something for him."

Tabs wasn't at all sure that it was only that. This fatal amiability might have raised quite different expectations in Adair. Like her two latest husbands, he might take a notion to hang his hat in her hall. If he did, would she abate her amiability sufficiently to tell him to hang it somewhere else?

She was drifting; what she needed was either a tow-rope or a rudder. He sent his gaze questing through the shadows.

"Those five photographs, all of the same man--they're of Pollock?"

"Yes."

"He was one of the first of all the aces, wasn't he? It was he who brought down the Zeppelin over Brussels and went missing a few days later. You see, I remember his record. He was outstandingly brave at a time when the world was full of brave men. And you tell me he loved you?"

An expression of triumph flitted across her face. "Not loved." Her voice was full-throated. "He adored me, and to me he was a G.o.d whom I worshiped. I'd have gone through h.e.l.l for him. I'd----"

"No, you wouldn't."

The flatness of the contradiction pulled her up short. "No you wouldn't," he repeated quietly. "You wouldn't even go through this for him. You wouldn't play the game by him when he was dead. He always kept his end up, whatever the odds against him; but you--you couldn't. This was your chance to show that you were worthy of him. While he was alive, you played a winning game; it was easy to be true to him. But he--he was stauncher; he was most to be trusted when the game seemed all but lost.

You ought to have kept his spirit alive for us; but you've understood so little of his spirit that you've been willing to put any stranger in his place--to quote your own words, any stranger who chose to hang his hat in your hall. Pollock was a soldier; he didn't need to be sure of victory to show courage. It was in tight corners that he was at his best. You're in a tight corner now, and you're his wife--the wife whom he didn't love, but adored."

The brutal impact of the truth had struck her dumb at first. Her lips had fallen apart. While she had listened, her face had gone white. Now that he paused, she slipped back into the cushions, covering her eyes with her hands. "For G.o.d's sake stop torturing me! Though you think I'm as contemptible as that, don't say it. If you must speak, tell me what you think I ought to do."

"Do! Until you find a living man who's his match, carry on as though he were not dead."

She uncovered her eyes and sat upright, staring at him. "As though he were not dead. But Reggie is dead. You know as well as I do that he's dead."

Tabs nodded. "I'm not denying it. But for all that, try to live as though he weren't--as though somewhere up the road, a day, a week, a month, a year hence he would meet you round the corner."

Her interest faded forlornly. "What good would that do? It would only be making believe with myself."

He spoke gently. "Yes, but games of make-believe come true. You couldn't meet _him_, but you might meet some one his equal--a man who's, perhaps, already waiting for you, while you squander yourself on makeshifts and second bests."

The little silence which had ended his speech dragged on from seconds into minutes. In the quiet room nothing stirred. She attempted to free herself from his gaze by refusing to look at him. Against her will her eyes crept up to his, clashed, evaded, fell back and again crept up to them.

At last, speaking humbly, she said, "I was ashamed. You made me ashamed.

Whatever I'd done, if he came back, he wouldn't be ashamed of me. It wouldn't matter how cowardly I'd been or however many husbands I'd had; he'd be so glad to have me in his arms that he wouldn't find time to be ashamed of me. So I'm not going to be ashamed any longer; I'm going to start to live as if he were coming back. It'll be hard at first.

Adair--he was nothing. And yet---- I shall miss him, no doubt. You said something this afternoon that you didn't mean."

"Didn't I? What was it?"

"It was when I was crying because n.o.body wanted me. Do you remember what you said? You said, 'I do,' not meaning a word of it. Could you manage to want me just a little, Lord Taborley? Not for long, you know; only till I've got past the loneliest places--till I've begun almost to persuade myself that he may come back. To think that you wanted me would help."

Before he could answer, she had sprung to her feet, all but over-turning the lamp. "What's that?"

A sharp rat-a-tat-tat had reverberated through the house. While she spoke, it was repeated. Her over-strung nerves gave way. As Tabs rose, she clung to him beseechingly. "Don't let him in. I'm not ready for him.

Don't let him in. Go outside and send him away. Tell him anything. But don't let him enter."

Tabs had no clear idea to whom she was referring. It might have been to Adair. It might have been to Pollock. It seemed more likely that it was to her dead husband. This talk about living as though he might come back had probably distraught an imagination already over-taxed.

"He sha'n't enter," he a.s.sured her. "There's no need to lose your nerve."

As he pa.s.sed into the hall, he heard the starchy approach of Porter. He waited and halted her with, "Mrs. Lockwood asked me to answer it."

When he had watched her retreat and vanish, he advanced towards the door. Who was it out there in the darkness whose knock had power to strike such terror? It was a terror the excitement of which he at least remotely shared. The thought crossed his mind, "Is it possible that her longing could have dragged him back?" He felt as though in the stucco-fronted gloom of Mulberry Court, Fate itself stood waiting for him on the other side of the panel. With conscious bravado he stretched out his hand and drew back the latch.

II

"Is it Mr. Easterday?"

It was a woman's voice that asked the question--a deep voice, thrilling with emotion, that made him wonder what it would sound like with all the stops pulled out. He had opened the door only a little way, expecting that he would have to refuse admittance. At the sound of a woman's voice, his sense of the conventions sprang to life. It must be a good deal past ten and here he was answering Maisie's door as though he were her butler. The kind of conclusions that could be drawn were made plain by the caller's question, "Is it Mr. Easterday?" To be mistaken for Easterday annoyed him. It was tantamount to an accusation. It implied that, even though he were not Easterday, the proprietory way in which he attended to other people's doors at after ten o'clock put Him well within Easterday's cla.s.s. Tabs was particularly annoyed to hear himself accused by a voice so gracious and pleasant. His surprise had evidently impressed her as furtiveness, for she said, "So it is Mr. Easterday?"

He was at a loss what to do with her--how to turn her away. For Maisie's sake she must not be allowed to enter, for then she would discover that they had been alone. He opened the door a few inches wider and parried to gain time. "If it's Mr. Easterday that you're wanting, you've made a fortunate mistake. This is Mrs. Lockwood's house. But I happen to know an Easterday--an Adair Easterday; he's a personal friend. Perhaps he's the man you're looking for. If so, I can give you his address."

This sally was greeted with a quiet, rather mocking laugh. He was using his eyes, trying to form an estimate of the visitor. She had arrived in a car, which he judged to be private, for in the light reflected from the windshield he could make out the livery of her chauffeur. She was swathed in a sumptuous wrap which looked as though it were of sable. She held it gathered closely about her, so that it fell in soft folds, revealing and at the same time concealing her figure. He was anxious to read her face, but the lower part was snuggled into the fur of the deep collar and the upper part was shadowed by a broad-brimmed tulle hat, from which two bird of paradise plumes spread back like wings on the helmet of a viking. For the rest, she had white kid gloves, which reached up to her elbows. Outside the glove of the left hand she wore a bracelet; every time she stirred the stones struck fire in the semi-darkness. Her hands were very small. Peeping out from below her gown, the buckles on her high-heeled shoes twinkled. She was mysterious, taunting, and strangely commanding. As she hovered there across the threshold, a faint perfume drifted up to him like the intoxicating romance of June rose-gardens under moonlight.

She, too, seemed to have suffered a surprise at hearing the tones in which he had spoken. "His address! Oh, no, it wasn't Mr. Easterday I was wanting. I only supposed---- If Mrs. Lockwood's at home, I should like to see her."