"I am laughing at myself," he explained. "I thought to buy things too cheaply."

May looked away, pondering on the meaning of his words. At last the meaning occurred to her.

"You mean you wanted to flatter me, and--and I began to talk about something else. Was that what made you laugh?" she asked.

"That's it," said Bingham. "I wanted to flatter you because it is a pleasure to flatter you, and I forgot what a privilege it was."

"Ah!" said May, quietly.

"Cheap, cheap, always cheap!" said Bingham. "Cheapness is the curse of our age. The old Radical belief in the right to buy cheaply, that poison has soaked into the very bone of politics. It has contaminated our religion. The pulpit has decided in favour of cheap salvation."

May looked round again at Bingham's moonlit profile.

"No more h.e.l.l!" he said, "no more narrow way, no more strait gate to heaven! On the contrary, we bawl ourselves blue a.s.serting that the way is broad, and that every blessed man Jack of us will find it. Yes," he went on more slowly, "we have no use now for a G.o.d who can deny to any one a cheap suburban residence in the New Jerusalem. And so," he added, "I flatter you, stupidly, and--and you forgive me."

They walked on together for a moment in silence.

"I don't deserve your forgiveness," he said. "But I desire your forgiveness. I desire your toleration as far as it will go. Perhaps, if you were to let me talk on, I might go too far for your toleration," and now he turned and looked at her.

"You would not go too far," said May. "You are too much detached; you look on----" and here she hesitated.

"Oh, d.a.m.n!" said Bingham, softly; "that is the accursed truth," and he stared before him at the cracks in the pavement as they stood out sharply in the moonlight.

"You mustn't mind," said May, soothingly.

"I do mind," said Bingham; "I should like to be able to take my own emotions seriously. I should like to feel the importance of my being highly strung, imaginative, a lover of beauty and susceptible to the charms of women. Instead of which I am hopelessly critical of myself. I see myself a blinking fool, among other fools." Bingham's lips went on moving as if he were continuing to speak to himself.

"When a woman takes you and your emotions seriously, what happens then?"

asked May very softly, and she looked at him with wide open eyes and her eyebrows full of inquiry.

"Ah!" sighed Bingham, "that was long ago. I have forgotten--or nearly."

Then he added, after a moment's silence: "May I talk to you about the present?"

"Yes, do," said May.

"There!" said Bingham, resentfully, "see how you trust me! You know that if I begin to step on forbidden ground, you have only to put out your finger and say 'Stop!' and I shall retire amiably, with a jest."

"That is part of--of your--your charm," said May, hesitatingly.

"My charm!" repeated Bingham, in a tone of sarcasm.

"I'm sorry I used the word charm," said May. "I will use a better term, your personality. You are so alarming and yet so gentle."

Bingham turned and gazed at her silently. They were now very near the Lodgings.

"Thanks," he said at last. "I know where I am. But I knew it before."

A great silence came upon them. Sounds pa.s.sed them as they walked; men hurried past them, occasionally a woman, a Red Cross nurse in uniform.

The sky above was still growing more and more luminous. All the rest of the way they walked in silence, each thinking their own thoughts, neither wishing to speak. When they reached the Lodgings Bingham walked into the court with her.

"Won't you come in?" she asked, but it was a mere formality, for she knew that he would refuse.

"It's too late," he said.

"And you are coming to dinner to-morrow at eight?" She laid emphasis on the hour, to hide the fact that she was really asking whether he meant to come at all, after their talk about his personality.

"Yes, at eight," he said. "Good-bye."

As he spoke the moon showed full and gloriously, coming out for a moment sharply from the fine gauzy veil of grey that overspread the sky, and the Court was distinct to its very corners. The gravel, the shallow stone steps at the door, the narrow windows on each side of the door, the sombre walls; all were illumined. And Bingham's face, as he lifted his cap, was illumined too. It was a very dark face, so dark that May doubted if she really had quite grasped the details of it in her own mind. His eyes seemed scarcely to notice her as she smiled, and yet he too smiled. Then he went back over the gravel to the gate without saying another word. She did not look at his retreating figure. She opened the door and went in. Other people in the world were suffering. Why can't one always realise that? It would make one's own suffering easier to bear.

The house seemed empty. There was not a sound in it. The dim portraits on the walls looked out from their frames at her. But they had nothing to do with her, she was an outsider!

She walked up the broad staircase. She must endure torture for two--nearly three more days! The hours must be dealt with one by one, even the minutes. It would take all her strength.

At the head of the stairs she paused. Her desire was to go straight to her room, and not to go into the drawing-room and greet her Aunt Lena.

Gwendolen would very likely be there in high spirits--the future mistress of the house--the one person in the world to whom the Warden would have to say, "May I? Can I?"

"Don't be a coward! Other people in the world are suffering besides you," said the inner voice; and May went straight to the drawing-room door and opened it.

The room was dark except for a glimmer from a red fire. May was going out again, and about to close the door, when her aunt's voice called to her, and the lights went up on each side of the fireplace. May pushed the door back again and came inside.

"Aunt Lena!" she called.

Lady Dashwood had been sitting on the couch near it. She was standing now. It was she who had put up the lights. Her face was pale and her eyes brilliant.

"May, it's all over!" she called under her breath.

May stood by the door. It was still ajar and in her hand.

"All over! What is all over?" she asked apprehensively.

"Shut the door!" said Lady Dashwood, in a low voice.

May shut the door.

"Gwendolen has broken off her engagement!" said Lady Dashwood, controlling her voice.

May always remembered that moment. The room seemed to stretch about her in alleys fringed with chairs and couches. There was plenty of room to walk, plenty of room to sit down. There was plenty of time too. It was extraordinary what a lot of time there was in the world, time for everything you wanted to do. Then there was the portrait over the mantelpiece. He seemed to have nothing to do. She had not thought of that before. He was absolutely idle, simply looking on. And below these trivial thoughts, tossed on the surface of her mind, flowed a strange, confused, almost overwhelming, tide of joy.

CHAPTER XXIV

A CAUSE AND IMPEDIMENT

"Oh!" was all that May said.