LITMIR.BIZ

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that Miss Evelyn does and says, or doesn’t say and doesn’t do, is absolutely right—ah, that is beyond price! No poor forms and ceremony shall stand between Bridget and me!

      I lifted the letters, and had no difficulty in selecting the one which would “give me joy”. Strangely enough, it was written by one of the newest of my friends, one whose very existence had been unknown to me two years before.

      We had met at a summer hotel where Kathie and I chanced to be staying, and never shall I forget my first sight of Charmion Fane as she trailed into the dining-room and seated herself at a small table opposite our own. She was so tall and pale and shadowy in the floating grey chiffon cloak that covered her white dress, she lay back in her chair with such languor, and drooped her heavy eyelids with an air of such superfine indifference to her fellow-men, that Kathie and I decided then and there that she was succumbing to the effects of a dangerous operation, and—with care—might be expected to last six or eight weeks.

      We held fast to this conclusion till the next morning, when we met our invalid striding over the moors, clad in abbreviated tweeds, and the manniest of hard felt hats. Kathie said that she was plain. I said, “Well, not plain exactly, but queer!” At dinner the same night, we amended the verdict, and voted her “rather nice”. Twenty-four hours later she represented our ideal of female charm, and we figuratively wept and rent our garments because she exhibited no interest in our charming selves. An inspection of the visitors’ book proved that her name was “Mrs. Fane,” but that was not particularly enlightening, especially as no home address was given.

      But on the third day, just as we were beginning to concoct dark schemes by means of which we could force acquaintanceship, the “grey lady” entered the lounge, marched unhesitatingly across to our corner, stood staring down at us as we sat on the sofa, and said shortly:—

      “This is ridiculous! We are wasting time! We three are the only really interesting people in the hotel; we are dying to know each other—and we know it! Come for a walk!” And lo! in another minute we were on the high road, Kathie on one side, I on the other, gazing at her with adoring eyes, while she said briskly:—

      “My name is Charmion Fane. I am quite alone. No children. Thirty-two. I don’t live anywhere in particular. Just prowl round from one place to another. If there are any other dull, necessary details that you want to know, ask!—and get them over. Then we can talk!”

      We laughed, and replied with similar biographical sketches on our own account, and then we did talk—about books, and travels, and hobbies, and mankind in general, and gradually, growing more and more intimate (or rather conscious of our intimacy, for we were friends after the first hour!) of our personal hopes, fears, difficulties, and mental outlooks.

      When we came in, Kathie and I faced each other in our bedroom, almost incoherent with pleasure and excitement.

      “Well! What an afternoon! My dear, isn’t she—” Kathie waved her hands to express a superlative beyond the power of words.

      “She is!”

      “The most fascinating, the most interesting, the most original—”

      “And she likes us, too! As much as we like her. Isn’t it glorious?”

      “She hasn’t spoken to another soul. How could we have called her plain! Evelyn, did you notice that she never spoke of her husband? She wears grey and violet, so he has probably been dead for some years, but she never referred to him in the slightest possible way.”

      “Would it be likely, Kathie, in our very first talk?”

      “Yes!” declared Kathie sturdily. “Not intentionally, perhaps, but with ordinary people it would have slipped out. ‘We went to Italy. My husband liked this or that.’ She never advanced even as far as the ‘we’. She must have been dreadfully, dreadfully fond of him!”

      I wondered! The death of a beloved husband or wife is a devastating blow; but when the memory is beautiful, time softens it into a hallowed sweetness. It is the bitter sorrow which refuses to be healed, which fills the heart with a ceaseless unrest. Not even to Kathie would I express my doubts, but the conviction weighed upon me that the cloud which hung over Charmion Fane was the remembrance of unhappiness rather than joy!

      For the next fortnight the greater part of our time was spent in Charmion’s company; generally we were a party of three, but in every day there came a precious hour or so when I had her alone, and hugged the secret confidence that the tête-à-tête was as welcome to her as to myself.

      Everything that was to be told about my own uneventful life she knew before many days were passed, but of her own past she never spoke. From incidental remarks we found that she had been the godchild of a well-known politician long since dead, and that at eighteen she had been presented at Court, which two discoveries proved useful, as they were enough to convince the aunts that Charmion was a safe and desirable acquaintance.

      Before she was twenty the scene had apparently shifted to America, where she had lived for several years, and presumably—though she never said so—had met her husband and spent her brief married life. Widowed—childless—thirty-two. Those few words supplied all that I knew of Charmion Fane, except the obvious facts which were patent to the eye.

      She was oddly undemonstrative, and for all her charm had a manner which made it impossible to approach one step nearer than she herself decreed. Even when it came to the moment of saying good-bye, I could not tell whether she wished to continue our friendship, or would be content to let it drop as a passing incident of travel; but to my joy she held on to my hand with a grip which was almost an appeal, and her thin, finely-cut lips twitched once and again. She looked full into my face with her strange eyes, the pupil large, the iris a light grey, ringed with an edge of black, and said simply, “I’ll miss you! But—it will go on. We will always be friends.” That was all, and during the two years which had passed since that day we had met only once, for another short summer holiday, and repeated invitations to The Clough had received the same refusal—“I am not ready for visit-making.”

      Letters I had received in plenty, and she had sent Kathie a handsome—really an extraordinarily handsome gift on her marriage, and to me the dearest of letters, understanding everything without being told, entering into my varying moods with exquisite comprehension. In return, I had poured out my heart, telling her of my loneliness, my difficulty about the next step, and now, at last, here came the reply.

      I sent Bridget away, drank my tea at a gulp, and settled down to read in luxurious enjoyment. It was a longer letter than I had yet received, and I had a premonition that it would clear the way. But I did not realise how epoch-making it was to prove.

      “Dear Evelyn Wastneys—I’ve been through it, my dear, and I know! It doesn’t bear talking of, so we won’t talk, but just pass on. What next? you ask. I have been trying to solve that problem for the last four years, and am no nearer a solution, so I can’t tell you, my dear, but I have an idea which might possibly provide a half-way house for us both till the clouds lift.

      “This summer I happened—literally happened!—upon a small country place about two hours’ rail from town. An agent would describe it as a ‘desirable gentleman’s residence, comprising four entertaining rooms and eight bedrooms, glass, stabling, and grounds of four acres, artistically laid out’. But never mind the agent; take it from me that that house is ideal. Long, low, irregular rooms just waiting to be made beautiful; no set garden, but a wilderness of flowers, and a belt of real woodland; dry soil, all the sun that is to be had, and an open country-side agreeably free from villadom. I was tempted—badly tempted, but could not face settling down alone. Only last week the agent wrote to me again.

      “Evelyn, we fit each other; we are friends by instinct. How would you like to take that house with me for the next two or three years, and furnish it between us with our best ‘bits’?

      “Understand, before we go any further—not for a moment do I suggest that we settle down to a definite home, and a jog-trot country life. I couldn’t stand it for one, and I doubt whether

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