triviality; they knew that some symbols of affection--trifling as they might be--were almost necessary. But then they understood affection. It was at this point that her sore heart sank to a leaden depression. Affection--cherishing, forestalling, imaginative affection--there was no lack of it, she was sure of that, in this beautiful England of pearl and gold which, in its melancholy, its sweetness, its breathing out of memories immemorial, so penetrated and possessed her; but was there not a terrible lack of it in the England that was to be hers, and where she was to make her home? CHAPTER XX. It was four days after Althea's arrival in London that Gerald stood in Helen's sitting-room and confronted her--smoking her cigarette in her low chair--as he had confronted her that summer on her return from Paris. Gerald looked rather absent and he looked rather worried, and Helen, who had observed these facts the moment he came in, was able to observe them for some time while he stood there before her, not looking at her, looking at nothing in particular, his eyes turning vaguely from the mist-enveloped trees outside to the flowers on the writing-table, and his eyebrows, always very expressive, knitting themselves a little or lifting as if in the attempt to dispel recurrent and oppressive preoccupations. It would have been natural in their free intercourse that, after a certain lapse of time, Helen should ask him what the matter was, helping him often, with the mere question, to recognise that something was the matter. But to-day she said nothing, and it was her silence instead of her questioning that made Gerald aware that he was standing there expecting to have his state of mind probed and then elucidated. It added a little to his sense of perplexity that Helen should be silent, and it was with a slight irritation that he turned and kicked a log before saying--'I'm rather bothered, Helen.' 'What is it?' said Helen. 'Money?' This had often been a bother to them both. Half turned from her, he shook his head. 'No, not money; that's all right now, thanks to Althea.' 'Well?' Helen questioned. He faced her again, a little quizzical, a little confused and at a loss. 'I suppose it's Althea herself.' 'Oh!' said Helen. She said it with a perceptible, though very mild change of tone; but Gerald, in his preoccupation, did not notice the change. 'You've seen her several times since she came back?' he asked. 'Yes, twice; I lunched with her and these American friends of hers yesterday,' said Helen. 'Well, I've seen her three times,' said Gerald. 'I went to her, as you know, directly I got back to London on Saturday; I cut my visit at the Fanshawes two days shorter on purpose. I saw her on Sunday, and I'm just come from her now. No one could say that I didn't show her every attention, could they?' It hardly seemed a question, and Helen did not answer it. 'I don't think she's quite pleased with me,' Gerald then brought out.