opportunities to become intimate, and they had become intimate. The
immediate origin of and excuse for the intimacy was a lampshade. George
had needed a lampshade for his room, and she had offered to paint one.
She submitted sketches. But George also could paint a bit. Hence
discussions, conferences, rival designs, and, lastly, an agreement upon
a composite design. Before long, the lampshade craze increasing in
virulence, they had between them re-lampshaded the entire house. Then
the charming mania expired; but it had done its work. During the summer
holiday George had written twice to Marguerite, and he had thought
pleasurably about her the whole time. He had hoped that she would open
the door for him upon his return, and that when he saw her again he
would at length penetrate the baffling secret of her individuality. She
had opened the door for him, exquisitely, but the secret had not yielded
itself. It was astonishing to George, how that girl could combine the
candours of honest intimacy with a profound reserve.

"Were you going in there for tea?" she asked, looking up at him gravely.

"No," he said. "I don't want any tea. I have to wend my way to the Roman
Catholic Cathedral--you know, the new one, near Victoria. I suppose you
wouldn't care to see it?"

"I should love to," she answered, with ingenuous eagerness. "I think it
might do me good."

A strange phrase, he thought! What did she mean?

"Would you mind walking?" she suggested.

"Let me take that portfolio, then."