itself felt. He had thought he did not love Rosemary as deeply
as he had loved Cecilia. Now, when he had lost her, he knew that
he did. She was everything to him--everything! And he must put
her out of his life completely. Even friendship was impossible
now. Life stretched before him in intolerable dreariness. He
must go on--there was his work--his children--but the heart had
gone out of him. He sat alone all that evening in his dark,
cold, comfortless study with his head bowed on his hands. Up on
the hill Rosemary had a headache and went early to bed, while
Ellen remarked to St. George, purring his disdain of foolish
humankind, who did not know that a soft cushion was the only
thing that really mattered,

"What would women do if headaches had never been invented, St.
George? But never mind, Saint. We'll just wink the other eye
for a few weeks. I admit I don't feel comfortable myself,
George. I feel as if I had drowned a kitten. But she promised,
Saint--and she was the one to offer it, George. Bismillah!"



CHAPTER XXIII. THE GOOD-CONDUCT CLUB

A light rain had been falling all day--a little, delicate,
beautiful spring rain, that somehow seemed to hint and whisper of
mayflowers and wakening violets. The harbour and the gulf and
the low-lying shore fields had been dim with pearl-gray mists.
But now in the evening the rain had ceased and the mists had
blown out to sea. Clouds sprinkled the sky over the harbour like
little fiery roses. Beyond it the hills were dark against a