Through the long pleasant weeks of the summer they talked and laughed and drove and sailed together, a happy trio. Mrs. Leroy's listless quiet of the first few days gave way to a brilliant, fitful gayety that enchanted the more silent two, and the few hours when she was not with them seemed incomplete. On his mentioning this to her one afternoon she shot him a strange glance. “But this is all wrong,” she said abruptly. “What will you do when I am gone in the winter?” “What do you mean?” he asked. “Gone where, when, how?” “My dear colonel,” she said lightly, but with an obvious effort, “do you imagine that I cannot leave you a honeymoon, in spite of my doting parenthood? I plan to spend the latter part of the winter in New York with friends. Perhaps by spring--” “My dear Mrs. Leroy, how absurd! How cruel of you! What will Lady do? What shall I do? She has never been separated from you in her life. Does she know of this?” “No; I shall tell her soon. As for what she will do--she will have her husband. If that is not enough for her, she should not marry the man who cannot--” She stopped suddenly and controlled with great effort a rising emotion almost too strong for her. Again a deep, inexplicable sympathy welled up in him. He longed to comfort her, to give her everything she wanted. He blamed himself and Jane for all the trouble they were causing her. That afternoon she kept in her room, and he and his fiancée drank their tea together alone. He was worried by the news of the morning, dissatisfied out of all proportion, vexed that so sensible and natural a proposition should leave him so uneasy and disappointed. He had meant the smooth, quiet life to go on without a break, and now the new relation must change everything. He glanced at Jane, a little irritated that she should not perceive his mood and exorcise it. But she had not her mother's marvellous susceptibility. She drank her tea in serene silence. He made a few haphazard remarks, hoping to lose in conversation the cloud that threatened his evening; but she only assented tranquilly and watched the changing colors of the early sunset. “Have you made a vow to agree with everything I say?” he asked finally, half laughing, half in earnest. “Not at all,” she replied placidly, “but you surely do not want an argument?” “Oh, no,” he answered her, vexed at himself. “What do you think of Mrs. ------'s novel?” he suggested, as the pages, fluttering in the rising breeze, caught his attention. “Mother is reading it, not I,” she returned indifferently. “I don't care very much for the new novels.” Involuntarily he turned as if to catch her mother's criticism of the book: light, perhaps, but witty, and with a little tang of harmless satire that always took his fancy. But she was not there. He sighed impatiently; was it possible he was a little bored? A quick step sounded on the gravel walk, a swish of skirts. “It is Louise Morris,” she said, “I'll meet her at the gate.”