his wife would do all that and more than was necessary in that kind. For himself then there was nothing to be done and nothing to be said. If they found it impossible--as was more than likely--to live on Bennett's income, something must be done to help them. Both families must contribute. . . For a moment he thought fantastically that the solution might be to ignore their marriage altogether, and keep Annette at home until Bennett could afford to keep her. He knew that for folly. If passion had so far blinded their reason that they had rushed into an insoluble compact, to thwart and repress it would be to invite unimagined disaster. "It is beyond me," he said. "Did these things happen when I was young? The world seems to be changing. I am too old to change with it." His last reflection was that, having swallowed Frederic's disaster, he could not logically strain at Annette's. He was wounded. Time would heal his wounds. Above all he must not be reduced to such an ignoble frenzy of bewilderment as Mrs. Lawrie. Then he felt sorry for the "garden-roller." "It must be," he said, "very distressing to come on a hard stone in the middle of a soft lawn." That restored his humour. He took twelve little pots and began filling them with earth and fibre for his bulbs. Annette came into the greenhouse. Francis suppressed a desire to run away. He did not look at her, but pretended to be absorbed in his work. Annette asked if she might help him. "I think," he said, "I think you had better close the door." Annette closed the door and stood with her back against it. Francis stole a glance at her. She was excited but there was no fear in her, only a sort of shy obstinacy. She said: "How you love your greenhouse! You have been so much happier since we came here." "I have. And you?" "I'm not altogether happy, because I want to go away." "My dear!" "Yes. You can't be quite happy when you're going away from things and people you've loved and grown used to, can you?" "I suppose not." "Father . . ." Francis trembled. His affections were touched. In his thoughts he had not realised the poignancy of his loss. It was going to be very painful; more painful almost than anything that had ever happened to him. He could not bear her hesitation, and he hastened the calamity. "I know," he said. "You know?" "Yes. I have had a letter from--his mother. She is very angry." "And you . . . Are you angry?" "Oh! my dear, dear child . . ." Then Annette was in his arms and they were crying together, and she was saying: "Dear, dear father . . . I didn't mean . . . I didn't know it was going to be like this. I didn't think, I didn't think of anything but him. I haven't thought of anything but him for a long time. . . ." "But such a wedding . . . no cake, no presents, nobody to cry over you . . ." "Only you, father."