But the answer was not posted. Lawless was delayed as he was leaving the hotel; when later he set forth his mood had changed, and he tore the reply he had written into fragments and scattered them on the pavement, to be further scattered by the boisterous wind that swept them into corners, only to dislodge them and scatter them anew. A few of the fragments fluttered under his feet as he strode along. He trod them heavily underfoot and walked on. Would she conclude from his silence that he would obey the summons? ... He was not quite sure whether by his action in destroying his answer he meant to accede to her wish, or simply to ignore it. A strong curiosity as to her reason for wishing to see him strove against his disinclination to comply with the request. Finally he decided to leave the matter in abeyance. If the humour took him he would go to her the following day. But the humour did not take him. The next day came and passed, and the note remained in his pocket still unanswered. Mrs Lawless waited at home each day in the hope of his coming, and denied herself to other visitors. On the third day she made an exception in favour of Mrs Smythe. "I came to inquire if you were ill," Mrs Smythe exclaimed as she entered the drawing-room. "You were not at the Frenches' the other evening, and we missed you yesterday at the Admiral's At Home. You aren't ill, Zoe... I don't think I ever saw you look better." She surveyed her friend critically. There was no indication of ill-health in the dark splendour of Zoe Lawless' face, nor in the graceful, beautiful body, but in the sun-flecked eyes was a hint of sadness which Mrs Smythe detected. "You are tired," she said. "No." Mrs Lawless drew her to the sofa and sat down beside her... "At least not physically tired," she added... "I'm feeling old. I'm thirty-three to-day, Kate." She lifted the dark hair at her temples. "Grey hairs there already, plenty of them. I spent some time this morning pulling them out, until it occurred to me as rather trivial... and futile, too. It's like stripping the red leaves from the trees in autumn in a poor pretence that the summer is not past... It only advances winter." "My dear girl!" Mrs Smythe said briskly, "when you are sixty-three you will be privileged to talk like that... Don't say too much about your age; I'm thirty-five." Zoe laughed, and as suddenly grew grave again.