added to which sweet Alice, with her arms about his neck, would

confess to him that life without him would be a misery hardly to be
endured, that the thought of him as the husband of another woman--of

Nellie Fanshawe in particular--was madness to her. It was right
perhaps, knowing what they did, that they should say good-bye to one

another. She would bring sorrow into his life. Better far that he
should put her away from him, that she should die of a broken heart,

as she felt sure she would. How could he, a fond lover, inflict this
suffering upon her? He ought of course to marry Nellie Fanshawe, but

he could not bear the girl. Would it not be the height of absurdity
to marry a girl he strongly disliked because twenty years hence she

might be more suitable to him than the woman he now loved and who
loved him?

Nor could Nellie Fanshawe bring herself to discuss without laughter
the suggestion of marrying on a hundred-and-fifty a year a curate that

she positively hated. There would come a time when wealth would be
indifferent to her, when her exalted spirit would ask but for the

satisfaction of self-sacrifice. But that time had not arrived. The
emotions it would bring with it she could not in her present state

even imagine. Her whole present being craved for the things of this
world, the things that were within her grasp. To ask her to forego

them now because later on she would not care for them! it was like
telling a schoolboy to avoid the tuck-shop because, when a man, the

thought of stick-jaw would be nauseous to him. If her capacity for
enjoyment was to be short-lived, all the more reason for grasping joy

quickly.
Alice Blatchley, when her lover was not by, gave herself many a

headache trying to think the thing out logically. Was it not foolish
of her to rush into this marriage with dear Nat? At forty she would

wish she had married somebody else. But most women at forty--she
judged from conversation round about her--wished they had married

somebody else. If every girl at twenty listened to herself at forty
there would be no more marriage. At forty she would be a different

person altogether. That other elderly person did not interest her.
To ask a young girl to spoil her life purely in the interests of this

middle-aged party--it did not seem right. Besides, whom else was she
to marry? Camelford would not have her; he did not want her then; he

was not going to want her at forty. For practical purposes Camelford
was out of the question. She might marry somebody else

altogether--and fare worse. She might remain a spinster: she hated
the mere name of spinster. The inky-fingered woman journalist that,

if all went well, she might become: it was not her idea. Was she
acting selfishly? Ought she, in his own interests, to refuse to marry

dear Nat? Nellie--the little cat--who would suit him at forty, would
not have him. If he was going to marry anyone but Nellie he might as

well marry her, Alice. A bachelor clergyman! it sounded almost
improper. Nor was dear Nat the type. If she threw him over it would

be into the arms of some designing minx. What was she to do?
Camelford at forty, under the influence of favourable criticism, would

have persuaded himself he was a heaven-sent prophet, his whole life to
be beautifully spent in the saving of mankind. At twenty he felt he

wanted to live. Weird-looking Jessica, with her magnificent eyes
veiling mysteries, was of more importance to him than the rest of the

species combined. Knowledge of the future in his ease only spurred
desire. The muddy complexion would grow pink and white, the thin

limbs round and shapely; the now scornful eyes would one day light
with love at his coming. It was what he had once hoped: it was what

he now knew. At forty the artist is stronger than the man; at twenty
the man is stronger than the artist.

An uncanny creature, so most folks would have described Jessica
Dearwood. Few would have imagined her developing into the

good-natured, easy-going Mrs. Camelford of middle age. The animal, so
strong within her at twenty, at thirty had burnt itself out. At

eighteen, madly, blindly in love with red-bearded, deep-voiced Dick
Everett she would, had he whistled to her, have flung herself

gratefully at his feet, and this in spite of the knowledge forewarning
her of the miserable life he would certainly lead her, at all events

until her slowly developing beauty should give her the whip hand of
him--by which time she would have come to despise him. Fortunately,

as she told herself, there was no fear of his doing so, the future
notwithstanding. Nellie Fanshawe's beauty held him as with chains of

steel, and Nellie had no intention of allowing her rich prize to
escape her. Her own lover, it was true, irritated her more than any

man she had ever met, but at least he would afford her refuge from the
bread of charity. Jessica Dearwood, an orphan, had been brought up by

a distant relative. She had not been the child to win affection. Of
silent, brooding nature, every thoughtless incivility had been to her

an insult, a wrong. Acceptance of young Camelford seemed her only
escape from a life that had become to her a martyrdom. At forty-one

he would wish he had remained a bachelor; but at thirty-eight that
would not trouble her. She would know herself he was much better off

as he was. Meanwhile, she would have come to like him, to respect
him. He would be famous, she would be proud of him. Crying into her

pillow--she could not help it--for love of handsome Dick, it was still
a comfort to reflect that Nellie Fanshawe, as it were, was watching

over her, protecting her from herself.
Dick, as he muttered to himself a dozen times a day, ought to marry

Jessica. At thirty-eight she would be his ideal. He looked at her as
she was at eighteen, and shuddered. Nellie at thirty would be plain

and uninteresting. But when did consideration of the future ever cry
halt to passion: when did a lover ever pause thinking of the morrow?

If her beauty was to quickly pass, was not that one reason the more
urging him to possess it while it lasted?

Nellie Fanshawe at forty would be a saint. The prospect did not
please her: she hated saints. She would love the tiresome, solemn

Nathaniel: of what use was that to her now? He did not desire her;
he was in love with Alice, and Alice was in love with him. What would

be the sense--even if they all agreed--in the three of them making
themselves miserable for all their youth that they might be contented

in their old age? Let age fend for itself and leave youth to its own
instincts. Let elderly saints suffer--it was their _metier_--and

youth drink the cup of life. It was a pity Dick was the only "catch"
available, but he was young and handsome. Other girls had to put up

with sixty and the gout.
Another point, a very serious point, had been overlooked. All that

had arrived to them in that dim future of the past had happened to
them as the results of their making the marriages they had made. To

what fate other roads would lead their knowledge could not tell them.
Nellie Fanshawe had become at forty a lovely character. Might not the

hard life she had led with her husband--a life calling for continual
sacrifice, for daily self-control--have helped towards this end? As