. . .at would live; and there stole to this blasé woman under the glancing sunlight a strange new feeling which she defined as interest.

“Why? You will not be there surely?”

He ignored the insolence of her question.

“If you mean that I shall not be one of Colonel Drevenhill’s guests—certainly not,” he rejoined. “Nevertheless if you are asked to sing, I hope that you will.”

He watched the carriage until it was out of sight.

All the rest of the afternoon he lay on the warm turf above the cottage smoking fiercely, and reading Heine. Then a gate slammed. The book slipped from his fingers. He sat up, listening, his heart beating thickly, his eyes ablaze. It was a woman who came into sight, but a woman in an ill-hanging skirt, pushing a cheap bicycle, a woman hot and dusty with riding. He ground his heel upon his feeling of sickly disappointment. This was better for him. He rose and . . . Read More