him as she slipped her hand into his arm. "Ah, please, Tony," she
pleaded, "what can I do?"

"Nothing!" he answered, suddenly pliant. "Nothing, of course." And
he turned to her a boyish face stern with pain. "Of course you can
do nothing, Cherie. I'm not such a--such a FOOL--"his voice broke
angrily--"that I can't see that! Come on, we'll go up and have
tea--with the Bellamys. And I--I'll be going to-night. I'll say
good-bye to you now--and perhaps you'll be good enough to make my
good-byes to the others--"

The youthfulness of it did not rob it of real dignity. Isabelle,
wretchedly mounting the steps beside him, felt her heart contract
with real pain. He would go away--it would all be over and
forgotten in a few weeks--and yet, how she longed to comfort him,
to make him happy again!

She looked obliquely at his set face, and what she saw there made
her feel ashamed.

On the bright level of the upper terrace tea was merrily in
progress. In the streaming afternoon light the scene was
strikingly cheerful and pretty: the wide wicker chairs with their
gay cretonne cushions, the over-shadowing green trees in heavy
leaf, the women's many-coloured gowns and the men's cool whites
and grays. On the broad white balustrade Isabelle's great peacock
was standing, with his tail fanned to its amazing breadth; two
maids, in their crisp black and white, were coming and going with
silver and china on their trays.