"You wouldn't." "Oh, yes, I would. Can't you just picture us, Godfrey? You, the typical country squire. I, the epitome of all Marshington virtues." He frowned at her. He was a little sad, a little hurt, a little disappointed. She knew that he was not heart-broken. "I can't be a good wife until I've learnt to be a person," said Muriel, "and perhaps in the end I'll never be a wife at all. That's very possible. But it doesn't matter. The thing that matters is to take your life into your hands and live it, following the highest vision as you see it. If I married you, I'd simply be following the expedient promptings of my mother and my upbringing. Do you see?" "I don't see. It's all that London nonsense. It's Delia. It's----" "No it isn't. It's Muriel--at last. You see, when she's really there, you don't much like her. Godfrey dear, how could we live together? We'd quarrel from the first." "You said that you might marry--one day----" "Who knows? But it won't be you. Why, you'll be married long before." A little breeze blew along the avenue. Muriel shivered. "I think we'd better go. I've talked too long. There's nothing else to say. Don't be more angry with me than you can help. We've both been honest with each other." "Yes---- We've been honest." He liked that. She felt his eyes straying again towards the open vista, to the fields where now long shadows stretched across the gilded grass, to the crowded terraces, to the grey house. He would find comfort there for whatever soreness she had left with him. "I'll go," she said. "And--very good luck to you, Godfrey." Shyly she held out her hand. He frowned. For a moment his wounded pride withheld him, but she looked so very small and powerless before his height, his strength, and his position. His smile came suddenly and he took her hand. "By Jove," he said, "I'm only just beginning to realize what I've missed." He stood, holding her small hand, under the arching elms. "You won't remember long. And, when you do, you'll be glad that I did not marry you." He shook his head. She broke from him and walked quickly away along the drive. Chequered sunlight and shadow fell on her small, upright figure. She moved steadily forward, not looking back at him. As he watched her go, an expression of tenderness, compassion and regret crossed his face. He sighed a little. Perhaps she was right. A wife with ideas? How queer women were! It always seemed as though he, who knew himself to be sought after, only wanted what he could never gain. He felt older and a little weary. Certainly it would be good to go where he was wanted, to have his vanity soothed by a simple, loving woman who would accept him as he was. Queer little thing, Muriel. If he had known what she was like, would he have spoken? After all, perhaps it had been an escape. With a sigh he turned again towards the house. Far away, on the high terrace, fluttered the rose-pink dress of Phyllis Marshall Gurney.