In these sad, painful, lonely weeks he found a spot of something like refuge in Leila's sitting-room, and would go there often for half an hour when she was back from her hospital. That little black-walled room with its Japanese prints and its flowers, soothed him. And Leila soothed him, innocent as he was of any knowledge of her latest aberration, and perhaps conscious that she herself was not too happy. To watch her arranging flowers, singing her little French songs, or to find her beside him, listening to his confidences, was the only real pleasure he knew in these days. And Leila, in turn, would watch him and think: 'Poor Edward! He has never lived; and never will; now!' But sometimes the thought would shoot through her: 'Perhaps he's to be envied. He doesn't feel what I feel, anyway. Why did I fall in love again?' They did not speak of Noel as a rule, but one evening she expressed her views roundly. “It was a great mistake to make Noel come back. Edward. It was Quixotic. You'll be lucky if real mischief doesn't come of it. She's not a patient character; one day she'll do something rash. And, mind you, she'll be much more likely to break out if she sees the world treating you badly than if it happens to herself. I should send her back to the country, before she makes bad worse.” “I can't do that, Leila. We must live it down together.” “Wrong, Edward. You should take things as they are.” With a heavy sigh Pierson answered: “I wish I could see her future. She's so attractive. And her defences are gone. She's lost faith, and belief in all that a good woman should be. The day after she came back she told me she was ashamed of herself. But since—she's not given a sign. She's so proud—my poor little Nollie. I see how men admire her, too. Our Belgian friend is painting her. He's a good man; but he finds her beautiful, and who can wonder. And your friend Captain Fort. Fathers are supposed to be blind, but they see very clear sometimes.” Leila rose and drew down a blind. “This sun,” she said. “Does Jimmy Fort come to you—often?” “Oh! no; very seldom. But still—I can see.” 'You bat—you blunderer!' thought Leila: 'See! You can't even see this beside you!' “I expect he's sorry for her,” she said in a queer voice. “Why should he be sorry? He doesn't know:” “Oh, yes! He knows; I told him.” “You told him!” “Yes,” Leila repeated stubbornly; “and he's sorry for her.” And even then “this monk” beside her did not see, and went blundering on. “No, no; it's not merely that he's sorry. By the way he looks at her, I know I'm not mistaken. I've wondered—what do you think, Leila. He's too old for her; but he seems an honourable, kind man.” “Oh! a most honourable, kind man.” But only by pressing her hand against her lips had she smothered a burst of bitter laughter. He, who saw nothing, could yet notice Fort's eyes when he looked at Noel, and be positive that he was in love with her! How plainly those eyes must speak! Her control gave way.