drawing of dancing-girls by Degas. Since the coverings of the couch and
the cushions were of Chinese silken embroideries, the interior appeared a
somewhat bizarre mixture of the Oriental and the French.

Antony had been in some doubt that Olivia would come. But he had thought
it natural that she should come to him in such an hour of distress, for
he knew the simple directness of her nature. Therefore he had taken no
chance. He had gone to High Wycombe, ransacked its simple provision
shops, and brought away a lunch basket.

She was for returning to the Castle to lunch. But he persuaded her to
stay. She needed no great pressing; she had a feeling that every hour was
precious, that it was unsafe to lose a single one of them: a foreboding
that she and Antony might not be together long. It almost seemed that a
like foreboding weighed on him. At times they seemed almost feverish in
their desire to wring the last drop of sweetness out of the swiftly
flying hour.

After lunch again the thought came to her that she ought to go back to
the Castle, that she might be needed, and missed; but it found no
expression. She could not tear herself away. She had been denied joy too
long, and it was intoxicating.

It was five o'clock before she left the Pavilion. She walked briskly,
with her wonted, easy, swinging gait, back to the Castle, in a dream, her
anxiety and fear for the while forgotten. On her way up to her suite of
rooms she met no one. She was quick to take off her hat and ring for her
tea. Elizabeth Twitcher brought it to her, and from her Olivia learned
that only Mr. Manley had asked for her. She realized that, after all,
thanks to her dead husband, she was but an inconspicuous person in the