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flung the spiritual foundations from beneath his feet. Cocksure, passionate, earnest, loving this woman who out of some sheer whim had married him on the spur of the moment. A man wholly devoted to his wife. A slave to her. Content with her, exhibiting no curiosity as to her past, asking no questions. Proud, not only of what he had snatched so quickly, but of what he would yet do. Yes. His brother loved Sheila. That was the danger, and that was the fear. He knew his brother. Hence this fear. But did this woman love Desmond? Who and what was she? From where had she come? ‘I shall find out everything in the end,’ he thought, and as though the woman had divined his very thought, he felt the increased pressure of her fingers upon his arm.
    â€˜Dear Sheila! I love you so much.’ Quite unconsciously he spoke these words, as though he were addressing not the being in flesh beside him, but that dream-like figure who stood before him, clear on the horizon of his thoughts, beside his brother. Suddenly he laughed. ‘Ssh, darling!’ she said. ‘Ssh! What were you laughing at?’ He whispered into her ear, ‘I said to myself, “Desmond thinks he is Danton, but he isn’t really.” But now tell me something. It is getting late, Sheila.’ Just as she opened her mouth to speak he closed it with his own, and said, muttering through his partly closed lips, ‘God, suppose you hadn’t come. Just suppose you hadn’t come. But—you have. You have . For you’re here. Sheila—no, don’t say anything yet until I’ve told you once more how happy I am. It’s lovely just sitting here with you, I can’t tell you how much I’ve longed for this.’ And again she heard his thumping heart, the tumult within him. ‘Sheila,’ he kept saying in her ear. ‘We are here. Alone . Imagine it.’
    She made no answer, but pulled at the lapels of his coat and hid her face behind them. ‘Dear God,’ she said to herself, ‘if only he understood. If only he understood.’ By his very fullness had she realized her own emptiness. She let go of his hands and moved away a little from him. She looked down at the wintry grass of the churchyard. By an effort of will she had just put distance between her and this youth—she had severed herself from that passion, that burning, throbbing ecstasy. She had retreated. The very look of that cold grass was cooling, sobering. Sitting silently, shrouded by the peace and quiet of this haven, she had lapsed into contemplation. And now that dream was an empty one, the purpose aimless, the voice within her motiveless. He had moved up, rested his head over her shoulder—his fingers lightly touching her cheek, and he had said quickly, ‘There is something the matter, Sheila! There is something the matter. What is it? Something has happened. I know—I can tell.’
    She turned round and looked at him with expressionless features.
    â€˜No, Peter dear, nothing has happened’—and knew she lied in his very face. ‘Nothing, honestly. I was thinking, that was all.’
    â€˜Of whom? Him! Listen, Sheila. Can’t we put an end to all this? Let us go away. Anywhere, I don’t care. I have a job. I can save up. These secret meetings, all this furtiveness and fear, it’s maddening, it’s waste of time. Be honest with me. You do love me, don’t you?’
    And when she would have replied he smothered the words with his hot and passionate lips. ‘But, Peter! We must talk. We must talk. Quickly. It’s getting late and I must go.’
    These words, the manner in which she uttered them, filled him with sudden dread, and he asked in a pained voice:
    â€˜Does he suspect?’
    â€˜It’s not him! It’s me, Peter. Dear Peter, it’s me. But you wouldn’t understand.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t understand?’ He could no longer conceal his fear, a fear that