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“Of course, he’s conceited,” she said, “but all boys are. He’ll get over it.”

“You talk as if you were a hundred, Maudie,” laughed Mrs. Mortimer. “He’s older than you are.”

“Oh, but boys are much younger than girls, Mrs. Mortimer. Harry Sterling’s quite a boy still.”

A knock sounded at the door. A minute later the boy walked in. The sight of Maudie Sinclair produced a momentary start, but he recovered himself and delivered a note from his mother, the excuse for his visit. It was an invitation for a few days ahead; there could certainly have been no hurry for it to arrive that night. While Mrs. Mortimer read it, Harry sat down and looked at her. She was obliged to treat his arrival as unimportant, and invited him to have a glass of wine.

“Why are you in evening dress?” asked Maudie wonderingly.

“For dinner,” answered Harry.

“Do you dress when you’re alone at home?”

“Generally. Most men do.”

Maudie allowed herself to laugh. Mrs. Mortimer saw the joke, too, but its amusement was bitter to her.

“I like it,” she said gently. “Most of the men I know do it.”

“Your husband doesn’t,” observed Miss Sinclair.

“Poor George gets down from town so tired.”

She gave Harry the reply she had written (it was a refusal–she could not have told why), but he seemed not to understand that he was to go. Before he apprehended, she had to give him a significant glance; she gave it in dread of Maudie’s eyes. She knew how sharp schoolgirls’ eyes are in such things. Whether Maudie saw it or not, Harry did; he sprang to his feet and said good-night.

Maudie was not long after him. The conversation languished, and there was nothing to keep her. With an honest yawn she took her leave. Mrs. Mortimer accompanied her down the garden to the gate. As she went, she became to her startled horror aware of a third person in the garden. She got rid of Maudie as soon as she could, and turned back to the house. Harry, emerging from behind a tree, stood before her.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he said doggedly, “but I couldn’t help it. I was dying to see you again.” She spread out her hands as though to push him away. She was like a frightened girl.

“Oh, you’re mad!” she whispered. “You must go. Suppose anyone should come. Suppose my husband—-“

“I can’t help it. I won’t stay long.”

“Harry, Harry, don’t be cruel! You’ll ruin me, Harry. If you love me, go–if you love me.”

Even now he hardly fathomed her distress, but she had made him understand that this spot and this time were too dangerous.

“Tell me where I can see you safely,” he asked, almost demanded.

“You can see me safely–nowhere.”

“Nowhere? You mean that you won’t—-“

“Harry, come here a minute–there–no closer. I just want to be able to touch your hair. Go away, dear–yes, I said ‘dear.’ Do please go away. You–you won’t be any happier afterward for having–if–if you don’t go away.”

He stood irresolutely still. Her fingers lightly touched his hair, and then her arm dropped at her side. He saw a tear run down her cheek. Suddenly his own face turned crimson.

“I’m–I’m very sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean—-“

“Good-night. I’m going in.”

She held out her hand. Again he bent and kissed it, and, as he did so, he felt the light touch of her lips among his hair.

“I’m such a foolish, foolish woman,” she whispered, “but you’re a gentleman, Harry,” and she drew her hand away and left him.

Two days later she took her children off to the seaside. And the Mortimers never came back to Natterley. She wrote and told Mrs. Sterling that George wanted to be nearer his work in town, and that they had gone to live at Wimbledon.

“How we shall miss her!” exclaimed good Mrs. Sterling. “Poor Harry! what’ll he say?”

III.

One day, at Brighton, some six years later, a lady in widow’s weeds, accompanied by a long, loose-limbed boy of fourteen, was taking the air by the sea. The place was full of people, and the scene gay.

Mrs. Mortimer sat down on a seat and Johnnie stood idly by her. Presently a young man and a girl came along. While they were still a long way off, Mrs. Mortimer, who was looking in that direction, suddenly leaned forward, started a little, and looked hard at them. Johnnie, noticing nothing, whistled unconcernedly.

The couple drew near. Mrs. Mortimer sat with a faint smile on her face. The girl was chatting merrily to the young man, and he listened to her and laughed every now and then, but his bright eyes were not fixed on her, but were here, there, and everywhere, where metal attractive to such eyes might be found. The discursive mood of the eyes somehow pleased Mrs. Mortimer. Just as the young man came opposite her, he glanced in her direction.

Mrs. Mortimer wore the curious, half-indifferent, half-expectant air of one ready for recognition, but not claiming it as a right.

At the first glance, a puzzled look came into the young man’s eyes. He looked again: then there was a blank in his eyes. Mrs. Mortimer made no sign, but sat still, half-expectant. He was past her now, but he flung a last glance over his shoulder. He was evidently very doubtful whether the lady on the seat, in the heavy mourning robes, were someone he knew or not. First he thought she was, and then he thought she wasn’t. The face certainly reminded him of–now who the deuce was it? Harry knit his brows and exclaimed:

“I half believe that’s somebody I know!”

And he puzzled over it, for nearly five minutes, all in vain. Meanwhile Mrs. Mortimer looked at the sea, till Johnnie told her that it was dinner-time.