in other, more cursory Junes. It was a greeting he appreciated; it

seemed friendly and pointed, added to the exhilaration of his
finished book, of his having his own country and the huge

oppressive amusing city that suggested everything, that contained
everything, under his hand again. "Stay at home and do things here

- do subjects we can measure," St. George had said; and now it
struck him he should ask nothing better than to stay at home for

ever. Late in the afternoon he took his way to Manchester Square,
looking out for a number he hadn't forgotten. Miss Fancourt,

however, was not at home, so that he turned rather dejectedly from
the door. His movement brought him face to face with a gentleman

just approaching it and recognised on another glance as Miss
Fancourt's father. Paul saluted this personage, and the General

returned the greeting with his customary good manner - a manner so
good, however, that you could never tell whether it meant he placed

you. The disappointedcaller felt the impulse to address him;
then, hesitating, became both aware of having no particular remark

to make, and convinced that though the old soldier remembered him
he remembered him wrong. He therefore went his way without

computing the irresistible effect his own evidentrecognition would
have on the General, who never neglected a chance to gossip. Our

young man's face was expressive, and observation seldom let it
pass. He hadn't taken ten steps before he heard himself called

after with a friendly semi-articulate "Er - I beg your pardon!" He
turned round and the General, smiling at him from the porch, said:

"Won't you come in? I won't leave you the advantage of me!" Paul
declined to come in, and then felt regret, for Miss Fancourt, so

late in the afternoon, might return at any moment. But her father
gave him no second chance; he appeared mainly to wish not to have

struck him as ungracious. A further look at the visitor had
recalled something, enough at least to enable him to say: "You've

come back, you've come back?" Paul was on the point of replying
that he had come back the night before, but he suppressed, the next

instant, this strong light on the immediacy of his visit and,
giving merely a general assent, alluded to the young lady he

deplored not having found. He had come late in the hope she would
be in. "I'll tell her - I'll tell her," said the old man; and then

he added quickly, gallantly: "You'll be giving us something new?
It's a long time, isn't it?" Now he remembered him right.

"Rather long. I'm very slow." Paul explained. "I met you at
Summersoft a long time ago."

"Oh yes - with Henry St. George. I remember very well. Before his
poor wife - " General Fancourt paused a moment, smiling a little

less. "I dare say you know."
"About Mrs. St. George's death? Certainly - I heard at the time."

"Oh no, I mean - I mean he's to be married."
"Ah I've not heard that!" But just as Paul was about to add "To

whom?" the General crossed his intention.
"When did you come back? I know you've been away - by my daughter.

She was very sorry. You ought to give her something new."
"I came back last night," said our young man, to whom something had

occurred which made his speech for the moment a little thick.
"Ah most kind of you to come so soon. Couldn't you turn up at

dinner?"
"At dinner?" Paul just mechanically" target="_blank" title="ad.机械地；无意识地">mechanicallyrepeated, not liking to ask

whom St. George was going to marry, but thinking only of that.
"There are several people, I believe. Certainly St. George. Or

afterwards if you like better. I believe my daughter expects - "
He appeared to notice something in the visitor's raised face (on

his steps he stood higher) which led him to interrupt himself, and
the interruption gave him a momentary sense of awkwardness, from

which he sought a quick issue. "Perhaps then you haven't heard
she's to be married."

Paul gaped again. "To be married?"
"To Mr. St. George - it has just been settled. Odd marriage, isn't

it?" Our listener uttered no opinion on this point: he only
continued to stare. "But I dare say it will do - she's so awfully

literary!" said the General.
Paul had turned very red. "Oh it's a surprise - very interesting,

very charming! I'm afraid I can't dine - so many thanks!"
"Well, you must come to the wedding!" cried the General. "Oh I

remember that day at Summersoft. He's a great man, you know."
"Charming - charming!" Paul stammered for retreat. He shook hands

with the General and got off. His face was red and he had the
sense of its growing more and more crimson. All the evening at

home - he went straight to his rooms and remained there dinnerless
- his cheek burned at intervals as if it had been smitten. He

didn't understand what had happened to him, what trick had been
played him, what treachery practised. "None, none," he said to

himself. "I've nothing to do with it. I'm out of it - it s none
of my business." But that bewildered murmur was followed again and

again by the incongruous ejaculation: "Was it a plan - was it a
plan?" Sometimes he cried to himself, breathless, "Have I been

duped, sold, swindled?" If at all, he was an absurd, an abject
victim. It was as if he hadn't lost her till now. He had

renounced her, yes; but that was another affair - that was a closed
but not a locked door. Now he seemed to see the door quite slammed

in his face. Did he expect her to wait - was she to give him his
time like that: two years at a stretch? He didn't know what he

had expected - he only knew what he hadn't. It wasn't this - it
wasn't this. Mystification bitterness and wrath rose and boiled in

him when he thought of the deference, the devotion, the credulity
with which he had listened to St. George. The evening wore on and

the light was long; but even when it had darkened he remained
without a lamp. He had flung himself on the sofa, where he lay

through the hours with his eyes either closed or gazing at the
gloom, in the attitude of a man teaching himself to bear something,

to bear having been made a fool of. He had made it too easy - that
idea passed over him like a hot wave. Suddenly, as he heard eleven

o'clock strike, he jumped up, remembering what General Fancourt had
said about his coming after dinner. He'd go - he'd see her at

least; perhaps he should see what it meant. He felt as if some of
the elements of a hard sum had been given him and the others were

wanting: he couldn't do his sum till he had got all his figures.
He dressed and drove quickly, so that by half-past eleven he was at

Manchester Square. There were a good many carriages at the door -
a party was going on; a circumstance which at the last gave him a

slight relief, for now he would rather see her in a crowd. People
passed him on the staircase; they were going away, going "on" with

the hunted herdlike movement of London society at night. But
sundry groups remained in the drawing-room, and it was some

minutes, as she didn't hear him announced, before he discovered and
spoke to her. In this short interval he had seen St. George

talking to a lady before the fireplace; but he at once looked away,
feeling unready for an encounter, and therefore couldn't be sure

the author of "Shadowmere" noticed him. At all events he didn't
come over though Miss Fancourt did as soon as she saw him - she

almost rushed at him, smiling rustling radiant beautiful. He had
forgotten what her head, what her face offered to the sight; she

was in white, there were gold figures on her dress and her hair was
a casque of gold. He saw in a single moment that she was happy,

happy with an aggressive splendour. But she wouldn't speak to him
of that, she would speak only of himself.

"I'm so delighted; my father told me. How kind of you to come!"
She struck him as so fresh and brave, while his eyes moved over

her, that he said to himself irresistibly: "Why to him, why not to