Of all the which me that night, a and a of against Fate more than against any individual, were the two that with me next morning. Astonishment not last. The of Audrey and myself being under the same after all these years had to me. It was a minor point, and my mind it in order to with the one thing that mattered, the that she had come into my life just when I had definitely, as I thought, put her out of it.

My deepened. Fate had played me a trick. Cynthia me. If I were weak, I should not be the only one to suffer. And something told me that I should be weak. How I to be strong, by the thousand memories which the of her would to me?

But I would fight, I told myself. I would not easily. I promised that to my self-respect, and was with a of excitement. I defiant. I wanted to test myself at once.

My opportunity came after breakfast. She was on the in of the house, almost, in fact, on the spot where we had met the night before. She looked up as she my step, and I saw that her had that which, in the days of our engagement, I had noticed often without attaching any particular to it. Heavens, what a of I must have been in those days! A child, I thought, if he were not up in the of his own magnificence, read its meaning.

It meant war, and I was of it. I wanted war.

'Good morning,' I said.

'Good morning.'

There was a pause. I took the opportunity to my thoughts.

I looked at her curiously. Five years had left their mark on her, but for the good. She had an air of which I had noticed in her before. It may have been there in the old days, but I did not think so. It was, I certain, a later development. She gave the of having been through much and of being sure of herself.

In she had little. She looked as small and and as she had done. She was a little paler, I thought, and the Irish were older and a harder; but that was all.

I with a start to the that I was at her. A had into her cheeks.

'Don't!' she said suddenly, with a little of irritation.

The word and the killed, as if they had been a blow, a of which had been over me.

'What are you doing here?' I asked.

She was silent.

'Please don't think I want to into your affairs,' I said viciously. 'I was only in the that we should meet here like this.'

She to me impulsively. Her had its hard look.

'Oh, Peter,' she said, 'I'm sorry. I am sorry.'

It was my chance, and I at it with a of which I almost immediately. But I was bitter, and makes a man do things.

'Sorry?' I said, puzzled. 'Why?'

She looked taken aback, as I she would.

'For—for what happened.'

'My dear Audrey! Anybody would have the same mistake. I don't wonder you took me for a burglar.'

'I didn't that. I meant—five years ago.'

I laughed. I was not like at the moment, but I did my best, and had the of that it upon her.

'Surely you're not about that?' I said. I laughed again. Very and I was that winter morning.

The moment in which we might have each other was over. There was a in her which told me that it was once more us.

'I you would over it,' she said.

'Well,' I said, 'I was only twenty-five. One's doesn't at twenty-five.'

'I don't think yours would be likely to break, Peter.'

'Is that a compliment, or otherwise?'

'You would think it a compliment. I meant that you were not to be heart-broken.'

'So that's your idea of a compliment!'

'I said I it was yours.'

'I must have been a of man five years ago, if I gave you that impression.'

'You were.'

She spoke in a voice, as if, across the years, she were some of insect. The me. I look, myself, with a at the man I had once been, but I still a of for him, and I piqued.

'I you looked on me as a of in those days?' I said.

'I I did.'

There was a pause.

'I didn't to your feelings,' she said. And that was the most part of it. Mine was an of offensiveness. I did want to her feelings. But hers, it to me, was no pose. She had had—and, I suppose, still retained—a of me. The was unequal.

'You were very kind,' she on, 'sometimes—when you to think of it.'

Considered as the best she to say of me, it was not an eulogy.

'Well,' I said, 'we needn't discuss what I was or did five years ago. Whatever I was or did, you escaped. Let's think of the present. What are we going to do about this?'

'You think the situation's embarrassing?'

'I do.'

'One of us ought to go, I suppose,' she said doubtfully.

'Exactly.'

'Well, I can't go.'

'Nor can I.'

'I have here.'

'Obviously, so have I.'

'It's necessary that I should be here.'

'And that I should.'

She me for a moment.

'Mrs Attwell told me that you were one of the assistant-masters at the school.'

'I am acting as assistant-master. I am to be learning the business.'

She hesitated.

'Why?' she said.

'Why not?'

'But—but—you used to be very well off.'

'I'm off now. I'm working.'

She was for a moment.

'Of it's for you to leave. You couldn't, you?'

'No.'

'I can't either.'

'Then I we must the embarrassment.'

'But why must it be embarrassing? You said you had—got over it.'

'Absolutely. I am to be married.'

She gave a little start. She a pattern on the with her she spoke.

'I you,' she said at last.

'Thank you.'

'I you will be very happy.'

'I'm sure I shall.'

She into silence. It to me that, having posted her in my affairs, I was to ask about hers.

'How in the world did you come to be here?' I said.

'It's a long story. After my husband died—'

'Oh!' I exclaimed, startled.

'Yes; he died three years ago.'

She spoke in a level voice, with a ring of in it, for which I was to learn the true later. At the time it to me to at having to speak of the man she had loved to me, she disliked, and my increased.

'I have been looking after myself for a long time.'

'In England?'

'In America. We to New York directly we—directly I had to you. I have been in America since. I only returned to England a ago.'

'But what you to Sanstead?'

'Some years ago I got to know Mr Ford, the father of the little boy who is at the school. He me to Mr Abney, who wanted somebody to help with the school.'

'And you are on your work? I mean—forgive me if I am personal—Mr Sheridan did not—'

'He left no money at all.'

'Who was he?' I out. I that the of the man was one which it was painful for her to talk about, at any to me; but the Sheridan had me for five years, and I to know something of this man who had my life without appearing in it.

'He was an artist, a friend of my father.'

I wanted to more. I wanted to know what he looked like, how he spoke, how he with me in a thousand ways; but it was plain that she would not be about him; and, with a of resentment, I gave her her way and my curiosity.

'So your work here is all you have?' I said.

'Absolutely all. And, if it's the same with you, well, here we are!'

'Here we are!' I echoed. 'Exactly.'

'We must try and make it as easy for each other as we can,' she said.

'Of course.'

She looked at me in that curious, wide-eyed way of hers.

'You have got thinner, Peter,' she said.

'Have I?' I said. 'Suffering, I suppose, or exercise.'

Her left my face. I saw her bite her lip.

'You me,' she said abruptly. 'You've been me all these years. Well, I don't wonder.'

She and to walk slowly away, and as she did so a of the of the part I was playing came over me. Ever since our talk had I had been trying to her, trying to take a on her—for what? All that had five years ago had been my fault. I not let her go like this. I mean.

'Audrey!' I called.

She stopped. I to her.

'Audrey!' I said, 'you're wrong. If there's I hate, it's myself. I just want to tell you I understand.'

Her parted, but she did not speak.

'I just what you do it,' I on. 'I can see now the of man I was in those days.'

'You're saying that to—to help me,' she said in a low voice.

'No. I have like that about it for years.'

'I you shamefully.'

'Nothing of the kind. There's a of man who needs a—jolt, and he has to it sooner or later. It that you gave me mine, but that wasn't your fault. I was to it—somehow.' I laughed. 'Fate was waiting for me the corner. Fate wanted something to me with. You to be the nearest thing handy.'

'I'm sorry, Peter.'

'Nonsense. You some into me. That's all you did. Every man needs education. Most men theirs in small doses, so that they know they are it at all. My money me from mine that way. By the time I met you there was a great of education to me, and I got it in a lump. That's all.'

'You're generous.'

'Nothing of the kind. It's only that I see than I did. I was a pig in those days.'

'You weren't!'

'I was. Well, we won't about it.'

Inside the house the for breakfast. We turned. As I to let her go in, she stopped.

'Peter,' she said.

She to speak quickly.

'Peter, let's be sensible. Why should we let this us, this being together here? Can't we just that we're two old friends who through a misunderstanding, and have come together again, with all the away—friends again? Shall we?'

She out her hand. She was smiling, but her were grave.

'Old friends, Peter?'

I took her hand.

'Old friends,' I said.

And we in to breakfast. On the table, my plate, was a from Cynthia.