quiet preparation for Paul. Paul was inevitable. Charles
was taken up with another girl, Mr. Wilcox was so old, Evie
so young, Mrs. Wilcox so different. Round the absent
brother she began to throw the halo of Romance, to irradiate
him with all the splendour of those happy days, to feel that
in him she should draw nearest to the robust ideal. He and
she were about the same age, Evie said. Most people thought
Paul handsomer than his brother. He was certainly a better
shot, though not so good at golf. And when Paul appeared,
flushed with the triumph of getting through an examination,
and ready to flirt with any pretty girl, Helen met him
halfway, or more than halfway, and turned towards him on the
Sunday evening.

He had been talking of his approaching exile in Nigeria,
and he should have continued to talk of it, and allowed
their guest to recover. But the heave of her bosom
flattered him. Passion was possible, and he became
passionate. Deep down in him something whispered, "This
girl would let you kiss her; you might not have such a
chance again."

That was "how it happened," or, rather, how Helen
described it to her sister, using words even more
unsympathetic than my own. But the poetry of that kiss, the
wonder of it, the magic that there was in life for hours
after it--who can describe that? It is so easy for an
Englishman to sneer at these chance collisions of human
beings. To the insular cynic and the insular moralist they
offer an equal opportunity. It is so easy to talk of