“Do smoke,” said Edith quickly. “I know you’re dying to.” “Thanks, if I may.” He lit; a cigarette. And she saw with a sudden sinking of her heart that his hands were steady. “There is the little chap at home,” he said, turning his eyes to her with a restored friendliness. “You’re sure you won’t mind him?” “Oh, I shall love him!” said Edith. “Do you know--you must not be jealous, but that is half the reason why I am so--why I am going to marry you, you know!” Horace was not jealous. He was very pleased, and he said so. “But what,” Edith asked anxiously, “will your sister say, Horace?” “Oh, my sister!” stammered Lestrange. “Do you think she will mind very much?” “You darling stupid!” cried Edith. “She’ll mind most horribly.” Then she blushed; she hadn’t meant to call him “darling.” She looked at him anxiously, but he had not noticed it. “By Jove, I believe she will; you’re right, Edith. I’m afraid she’ll cut up frightfully rough! I thought I had managed to think it all out--about you, you know, and the little chap and me--and Annette, my dead wife.” He spoke these last words in a voice she had never heard him use before. But he spoke them bravely and honestly, with his eyes on hers. Her courage leapt to meet his. “My dear,” she said quickly, “I want you to behave as if I had loved her too. I want you to talk to me of her, to let her share our life, or rather to let me share yours and hers. I want you never to be afraid that I do not understand. I come to you to give you all the help and comfort that I can, but I come to you knowing that she has your heart.” Then Lestrange kissed her. The last hesitation fell away from this new purpose, the last cloud melted. His heart went out in friendship and gratitude to this woman who did not seek to rob him of his past. There was a moment’s splendid recognition between them, as strong as passion and as kind as love. Then the breathless hush of the air broke in a chill and sudden shower; they passed through the drenched garden quickly into the big hotel. II When Miss Lestrange received the announcement of her brother’s engagement she replied by return of post, congratulating him on his prospective happiness. She called it prospective, but she allowed that it was happiness. She offered to give up her residence at Mallows, Horace’s place in the country, and suggested that perhaps she could take a villa by the seaside. “This,” she wrote, “would be very suitable for Leslie as well.” She took entirely for granted that she should keep the boy. Then she said to herself: “Edith Walton! What extraordinary people Horace picks up! One has never heard of her! There was a Lady Walton I remember meeting at Bournemouth; her husband probably got knighted for patent biscuits, or some vulgar charity; the Lindleys knew her. I will call on the Lindleys.”