“Yes; thank God. I’ve dropped the poor creature on Norah Curfew.”

Fleur smiled. “Ah! Yes, Norah Curfew! SHE lives for everybody but herself, doesn’t she?”

“She does,” said Michael, rather sharply.

“The new woman. One’s getting clean out of fashion.”

Michael took her cheeks between his hands.

“What’s the matter, Fleur?”

“Nothing.”

“There is.”

“Well, one gets a bit fed up with being left out, as if one were fit for nothing but Kit, and looking appetising.”

Michael dropped his hands, hurt and puzzled. Certainly he had not consulted her about his ‘down and outs’; had felt sure it would only bore or make her laugh—No future in it! And had there been?

“Any time you like to go shares in any mortal thing, Fleur, you’ve only to say so.”

“Oh! I don’t want to poke into your affairs. I’ve got my own. Have you had tea?”

“Do tell me what’s the matter?”

“My dear boy, you’ve already asked me that, and I’ve already told you—nothing.”

“Won’t you kiss me?”

“Of course. And there’s Kit’s bath—would you like to go up?”

Each short stab went in a little farther. This was a spiritual crisis, and he did not know in the least how to handle it. Didn’t she want him to admire her, to desire her? What did she want? Recognition that she was as interested as he in-in the state of the Country? Of course! Only—was she?

“Well,” she said, “I want tea, anyway. Is the new woman dramatic?”

Jealousy? The notion was absurd. He said quietly:

“I don’t quite follow you.”

Fleur looked up at him with very clear eyes.

“Good God!” said Michael, and left the room.

He went up-stairs and sat down before ‘The White Monkey.’ In that strategic position he better perceived the core of his domestic moment. Fleur had to be first—had to take precedence. No object in her collection must live a life of its own! He was appalled by the bitterness of that thought. No, no! It was only that she had a complex—a silver spoon, and it had become natural in her mouth. She resented his having interests in which she was not first; or rather, perhaps, resented the fact that they were not her interests too. And that was to her credit, when you came to think of it. She was vexed with herself for being egocentric. Poor child! ‘I’ve got to mind my eye,’ thought Michael, ‘or I shall make some modern-novel mess of this in three parts.’ And his mind strayed naturally to the science of dishing up symptoms as if they were roots—ha! He remembered his nursery governess locking him in; he had dreaded being penned up ever since. The psychoanalysts would say that was due to the action of his governess. It wasn’t—many small boys wouldn’t have cared a hang; it was due to a nature that existed before that action. He took up the photograph of Fleur that stood on his desk. He loved the face, he would always love it. If she had limitations—well! So had he—lots! This was comedy, one mustn’t make it into tragedy! Surely she had a sense of humour, too! Had she? Had she not? And Michael searched the face he held in his hands…

But, as is usual with husbands, he had diagnosed without knowledge of all the facts.

Fleur had been bored at Lippinghall, even collection of the Minister had tried her. She had concealed her boredom from Michael. But self-sacrifice takes its revenge. She reached home in a mood of definite antagonism to public affairs. Hoping to feel better if she bought a hat or two, she set out for Bond Street. At the corner of Burlington Street, a young man bared his head.

“Fleur!”

Wilfrid Desert! Very lean and very brown!

“You!”

“Yes. I’m just back. How’s Michael?”

“Very well. Only he’s in Parliament.”

“Great Scott! And how are you?”

“As you see. Did you have a good time?”

“Yes. I’m only perching. The East has got me!”

“Are you coming to see us?”

“I think not. The burnt child, you know.”

“Yes; you ARE brown!”

“Well, good-bye, Fleur! You look just the same, only more so. I’ll see Michael somewhere.”

“Good-bye!” She walked on without looking back, and then regretted not having found out whether Wilfrid had done the same.

She had given Wilfrid up for—well, for Michael, who—who had forgotten it! Really she was too self-sacrificing!

And then at three o’clock a note was brought her:

“By hand, ma’am; answer waiting.”

She opened an envelope, stamped ‘Cosmopolis Hotel.’

Fleur stared at an illegible signature, and her thoughts were bitter. Jon had dumped Francis on her as a herald of his happiness; her enemy had lifted him! Well, then, why didn’t that Cat look after him herself? Oh! well, poor boy! Ill in a great hotel—without a soul!

“Call me a taxi, Coaker.”

On her way to the Hotel she felt slight excitement of the ‘ministering angel’ order.

Giving her name at the bureau, she was taken up to Room 209. A chambermaid was there. The doctor, she said, had ordered a nurse, who had not yet come.

Francis Wilmot, very flushed, was lying back, propped up; his eyes were closed.

“How long has he been ill like this?”

“I’ve noticed him looking queer, ma’am; but we didn’t know how bad he was until today. I think he’s just neglected it. The doctor says he’s got to be packed. Poor gentleman, it’s very sad. You see, he’s hardly there!”

Francis Wilmot’s lips were moving; he was evidently on the verge of delirium.

“Go and make some lemon tea in a jug as weak and hot as you can; quick!”

When the maid had gone, she went up and put her cool hand to his forehead.

“It’s all right, Francis. Much pain?”

Francis Wilmot’s lips ceased to move; he looked up at her and his eyes seemed to burn.

“If you cure me,” he said, “I’ll hate you. I just want to get out, quick!”

She changed her hand on his forehead, whose heat seemed to scorch the skin of her palm. His lips resumed their almost soundless movement. The meaningless, meaningful whispering frightened her, but she stood her ground, constantly changing her hand, till the maid came back with the tea.

“The nurse has come, miss; she’ll be up in a minute.”

“Pour out the tea. Now, Francis, drink!”

His lips sucked, chattered, sucked. Fleur handed back the cup, and stood away. His eyes had closed again.

“Oh! ma’am,” whispered the maid, “he IS bad! Such a nice young gentleman, too.”

“What was his temperature; do you know?”

“I did hear the doctor say nearly 105. Here is the nurse, ma’am.”

Fleur went to her in the doorway.

“It’s not just ordinary, nurse—he WANTS to go. I think a love-affair’s gone wrong. Shall I stop and help you pack him?”

When the pneumonia jacket had been put on, she lingered, looking down at him. His eyelashes lay close and dark against his cheeks, long and innocent, like a little boy’s.

Outside the door, the maid touched her arm. “I found this letter, ma’am; ought I to show it to the doctor?”

Fleur read: