him, mainly, perhaps, because he had not discovered it. For theirs had been the lightest and gayest of friendships, with nothing visible to threaten a deeper entente; merely, on her part, a happy enjoyment and a laughing parrying in the eternal combat that never entirely ends, even when it means nothing. And on his side it had been the effortless attentions of a man aware of her young and unspoiled charm – conscious of an unusual situation which always fascinates all men.
He had had no intention, no idea, no policy except to drift as far as the tides of destiny carried him in her company. The situation was agreeable; if it became less so, he could take to the oars and row where he liked.
But the tides had carried him to the edge of waters less clear; he was vaguely aware of it now, aware, too, that troubled seas lay somewhere behind the veil.
The library clock struck three times. He got up and went to the telephone booth. Miss Nevers was there; would speak to him if he could wait a moment. He waited. Finally, a far voice called, greeting him pleasantly, and explaining that matters which antedated her business at Silverwood had demanded her personal attention in town. To his request for particulars, she said that she had work to do among the jades and Chinese porcelains belonging to a Mr. Clydesdale.
"I know him," said Desboro curtly. "When do you finish?"
"I have finished for the present. Later there is further work to be done at Mr. Clydesdale's. I had to make certain arrangements before I went to you – being already under contract to Mr. Clydesdale, and at his service when he wanted me."
There was a silence. Then he asked her when she was coming to Silverwood.
"Did you not receive my message?" she asked.
"About – what's his name? Sissly? Yes, I did, but I don't want him. I want you or nobody!"
"You are unreasonable, Mr. Desboro. Lionel Sissly is a very celebrated connoisseur."
"Don't you want to come?"
"I have so many matters here – "
"Don't you want to?" he persisted.
"Why, of course, I'd like to. It is most interesting work. But Mr. Sissly – "
"Oh, hang Mr. Sissly! Do you suppose he interests me? You said that this work might take you weeks. You said you loved it. You apparently expected to be busy with it until it was finished. Now, you propose to send a man called Sissly! Why?"
"Don't you know that I have other things – "
"What have I done, Miss Nevers?"
"I don't understand you."
"What have I done to drive you away?"
"How absurd! Nothing! And you've been so kind to me – "
"You've been kind to me. Why are you no longer?"
"I – it's a question – of business – matters which demand – "
"Will you come once more?"
No reply.
"Will you?" he repeated.
"Is there any reason – "
"Yes."
Another pause, then:
"Yes, I'll come – if there's a reason – "
"When?"
"To-morrow?"
"Do you promise?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll meet you as usual."
"Thank you."
He said: "How is your skating jacket coming along?"
"I have – stopped work on it."
"Why?"
"I do not expect to – have time – for skating."
"Didn't you ever expect to come up here again?" he asked with a slight shiver.
"I thought that Mr. Sissly could do what was necessary."
"Didn't it occur to you that you were ending a friendship rather abruptly?"
She was silent.
"Don't you think it was a trifle brusque, Miss Nevers?"
"Does the acquaintanceship of a week count so much with you, Mr. Desboro?"
"You know it does."
"No. I did not know it. If I had supposed so, I would have written a polite letter regretting that I could no longer personally attend to the business in hand."
"Doesn't it count at all with you?" he asked.
"What?"
"Our friendship."
"Our acquaintanceship of a single week? Why, yes. I remember it with pleasure – your kindness, and Mrs. Quant's – "
"How on earth can you talk to me that way?"
"I don't understand you."
"Then I'll say, bluntly, that it meant a lot to me, and that the place is intolerable when you're not here. That is specific, isn't it?"
"Very. You mean that, being accustomed to having somebody to amuse you, your own resources are insufficient."
"Are you serious?"
"Perfectly. That is why you are kind enough to miss my coming and going – because I amuse you."
"Do you think that way about me?"
"I do when I think of you. You know sometimes I'm thinking of other things, too, Mr. Desboro."
He bit his lip, waited for a moment, then:
"If you feel that way, you'll scarcely care to come up to-morrow. Whatever arrangement you make about cataloguing the collection will be all right. If I am not here, communications addressed to the Olympian Club will be forwarded – "
"Mr. Desboro!"
"Yes?"
"Forgive me – won't you?"
There was a moment's interval, fraught heavily with the possibilities of Chance, then the silent currents of Fate flowed on toward her appointed destiny and his – whatever it was to be, wherever it lay, behind the unstirring, inviolable veil.
"Have you forgiven me?"
"And you me?" he asked.
"I have nothing to forgive; truly, I haven't. Why did you think I had? Because I have been talking flippantly? You have been so uniformly considerate and kind to me – you must know that it was nothing you said or did that made me think – wonder – whether – perhaps – "
"What?" he insisted. But she declined further explanation in a voice so different, so much gayer and happier than it had sounded before, that he was content to let matters rest – perhaps dimly surmising something approaching the truth.
She, too, noticed the difference in his voice as he said:
"Then may I have the car there as usual to-morrow morning?"
"Please."
He drew an unconscious sigh of relief. She said something more that he could scarcely hear, so low and distant sounded her voice, and he asked her to repeat it.
"I only said that I would be happy to go back," came the far voice.
Quick, unconsidered words trembled on his lips for utterance; perhaps fear of undoing what had been done restrained him.
"Not as happy as I will be to see you," he said, with an effort.
"Thank you. Good-bye, Mr. Desboro."
"Good-bye."
The sudden accession of high spirits filled him with delightful impatience. He ranged the house restlessly, traversing the hallway and silent rooms. A happy inclination for miscellaneous conversation impelled him to long-deferred interviews with people on the place. He talked business to Mrs. Quant, to Michael, the armourer; he put on snow-shoes and went cross lots to talk to his deaf head-farmer, Vail. Then he came back and set himself resolutely to his accounts; and after dinner