So, perhaps, after all, the reports about Ridokanaki's European "successes" were all nonsense. Yes, he had revealed his wound quite openly, and it was a bitter one. He had never been loved "for himself".

Woodville pitied him.

"What do you propose?" said Woodville, falling into the Greek's laconic tone.

"Why should a man of your ability go twice a week in an omnibus to a shabby studio, in hopes of making a few pounds a year by copying?

Because you're hard up. Why should you be so hard up? I met you once going there, and thought how hard it was. It is dreadful to be hard up.... This is what I propose. I can easily obtain for you a post in connection with my bank. The salary to begin with will be two thousand pounds a year. In Athens."

"Athens!"

"I propose that you try it for a year. During that year I will not see the lady. I will efface myself. If at the end of that time you both still feel the same I shall give up for ever my own wish. You can have a similar post then in London."

"Mr. Ridokanaki, you are too kind. But why, _why_ should you?"

"Because I hate to see you near her. If your attachment for each other is the real thing it will stand this separation. Then I shall sink my own feelings. Of course, you see I mean it."

"Thank you," said Woodville, rather touched, and hesitating.

"Please understand," continued Ridokanaki, "that I don't hope for one _moment_ there is in any case a chance for me. It's chiefly," he said markedly, "to spare me a year's torture. I can't stand your being in the same house with her. It kills me. I'll try, then, when you've given me this chance, to turn into a friend, a G.o.dfather!" He poured out some old brandy and drank it. Woodville changed colour. "They speak of me as a Don Juan, I believe, but I'm really much more of a Don Quixote. If you spare me this year I'll do anything to help you both."

He tapped the liqueur-gla.s.s on the table nervously, and went on. "I have got this very badly. Very badly. Oh very."

"_How_ can I accept from you----"

"You gain nothing by refusing. The favour is to _me_--remember _that_.

In a year you'll be in the position you are now, or worse--if you stay.

If you go to Athens you will, of course, have a delightful time. You speak French; you will not have much to do. Only the sort of thing you can do easily and well. Don't you want to see different places, different things?... You are the man I have been looking for. There is some very interesting society in Athens. You would be adored there. But I know that's not what you care about."

"No; I have not the 'true h.e.l.lenic spirit.' But I want to be independent. I am afraid I couldn't."

"I shall keep this thing open for a month," said Ridokanaki. "Come and see me. All right.--Yes,--I must go.... You had rather write, not come and see me, eh?"

"You see, I must consult----"

"Of course, you want to consult some one. But, listen. _Don't_ go by women! That would be really a pity. They don't know what's good for them." He laughed a little vaguely.

They both stood up.

"Mr. Ridokanaki, you have been more than kind. It is difficult----"

"Well, you'll think it over. Good-bye, Woodville."

Woodville walked away from the restaurant feeling wildly excited. Mr.

Ridokanaki made hideous faces in the mirror in his carriage as he drove away and said to himself--

"He thinks I'm the Frog Prince, and he's Prince Charming. Useless! Waste of time! What a fool I am! An evening thrown away! She'll never let him go. He's too good-looking."

I have not given Mr. Ridokanaki's exact words in his soliloquy. This book is intended for general reading.

CHAPTER X

THE THIN END OF THE WEDGE

Felicity was dressing to meet her husband at the station. She tried on three new hats, and finally went back to one that Lord Chetwode had seen before.

"It's too absurd," she said to herself as she drove off. "The extraordinary long time he has been away! Of course I know that nothing but racing or furniture takes him from me. What long letters he writes--he can't be forgetting me! When I see him I never like him to think that I mind. I think a husband ought to have perfect freedom; it's the only way to keep him. It seems to keep him away! Very odd!"

Felicity arrived before the train was due. When it came in and no Chetwode appeared, she blamed the porter and the guard, and asked to see the station-master. He was very charmed with her, but could only patiently repeat that there was not another train that day from the remote little village where Chetwode had gone from Newmarket to pick up an old piece of furniture.

"Really this is too much," said Felicity as she got into the carriage, and with difficulty prevented herself from bursting into tears. "What shall I do? How utterly sickening!" When she got home she found a telegram from Chetwode putting off his return for a day or two, as there was an old dresser in the kitchen of a farmhouse which the owner wouldn't part with, and that he (Chetwode) was not going to lose. It would be a crime to miss it. His telegram (they were always nearly as long as his letters) concluded by saying that, given the information straight from the stables, Peter Pan had a good chance at Sandown.

"Oh!" she said again to herself. "Why, good gracious, I'm miserable!

I've put off everything to-day. The worst of it is I can't do anything Chetwode wouldn't like, because he likes everything I do."

She got back into the carriage, and told the coachman to drive to Mrs.

Ogilvie's. Poor Vera! She was unhappy too. On her way she met F. J.

Rivers walking with the red-haired girl, so she felt sure that Lucy Winter was no longer a thorn in the flesh to Vera. And possibly Vera was very happy to-day! So Felicity wasn't in the mood for her.

She drove to the Park instead (she had put aside all engagements because Chetwode was coming home), and was thoughtful. Suddenly she caught sight of Bertie Wilton chattering to another boy by the railings. He bowed very formally. She stopped the carriage and beckoned to him.

"Would you like to come for a drive?" she said in her sweetest, lowest tone.

"I should like to immensely, as you know only too well, Lady Chetwode, but perhaps I'd better not. My bank-holiday manners might bore you."

"How fickle you are. Come along," she commanded.

He had just been on his way, he said, to an Exhibition of Old Masters to see if there was anything there like the little Romney he had at Half Moon Street that was so like her. So they drove to the New Gallery together.

"I was in the depths of despair when I met you. So much so that I was trying to drown my sorrows in gossip," said Mr. Wilton.

"And I am feeling rather sad," said Felicity; "if we are both horribly depressed perhaps we shall cheer each other up."

"Ah, but I was depressed about you, and you were depressed about some one else. I wonder who it is."

"Guess," she said.

"About some one who isn't here? How extraordinary of him not to be here!

Perhaps that's why you like him so much. Perhaps it's very clever--with a person like you--to be never there! Perhaps it's the only way to make you think about him!"

"What do you mean by a person like me?"

"You are right. There is no one like you. Anyhow, it's a cleverness I could never pretend to. I know I should be always there, or thereabouts.

At all risks! Yes, all! I always say so."