prove insurmountable even by his enthusiasm and courage. Were they
friends? Could they ever be friends?

Even while he asked himself the question, a voice within him answered,
"No."

Women who have led certain lives lose the faculty for friendship, if
they ever possessed it. Events have taught them, what instinct seems to
teach many women, to look on men as more physical even than they are.
And such women show their outlook perpetually, in word, in look, in
action, and in the indefinable _nuances_ of manner which make a person's
atmosphere. This outlook affects men, both shames them and excites them,
acting on god and brute. Neither shamed god nor brute with lifted head
is in the mood for friendship.

Mrs. Chepstow had this instinctive outlook on male creation, and not
even her delicate gifts as a _comédienne_ could entirely disguise it.

At last Nigel reached a crisis of restlessness and uncertainty, which
warned him that he must drift and delay no longer, but make up his mind
quite definitely what course he was going to take. He was not a man who
could live comfortably in indecision. He hated it, indeed, as an
attribute of weakness.

He must "have it out" with himself.

It was now July. The season would soon be over. And his acquaintance
with Mrs. Chepstow? Would that be over too? It might come to an end
quite naturally. He would go into the country, presently to Scotland for
the shooting. And she--where would she go? This question set him