All this spring they had been miserable together. Now was beginning a time that was always jolly in London and yet he could not enjoy a moment of it. Did she dislike him instead of liking him, or did he like her instead of loving her, it would all be so easy--just the same as any other couple. Ever since that silly Nita incident there had been this restraint, and yet how could that be the cause? Rachel had made nothing of it; it was because it had meant so little to her that he had chafed so at the remembrance of it. She was fond of him--he knew that--she was miserably unhappy. He loved her--and he was miserably unhappy. Damn this weather. He looked at her, wondered what would happen did he cross over and suddenly kiss her, knew that he would see her struggle to be kind, to give him what he wanted, knew that that would hurt most damnably, and that he would be in a bad temper for the rest of the evening and would wonder why-- So, with a muttered word he went out and up to his dressing-room, had a bath, and then lay reading with serious brows _The Winning Post_ until his man told him that it was time to dress. Slowly and with the absorbed care that he always gave to these preparations he made himself ready for the Beaminster dinner. CHAPTER V LIZZIE'S JOURNEY--I "So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgment making; Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter In sleep a king; but waking no such matter." WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. I During this year Lizzie Rand was glad that she had so much to do. As she had never until now given the romance in her an opportunity for freedom, so had she never before realized the amazing invasion upon life that that same romance might threaten. Indeed by the early summer months of 1899 "threaten" was no longer an honest definition, for, now this same Romance had invaded, had conquered, had confronted the very citadels of Lizzie's heart, citadels never surveyed nor challenged at any time before. Nevertheless, even now, Portland Place noticed no change in Miss Rand. Norris, Mrs. Newton, Dorchester would still, had they been challenged, have protested that Miss Rand had no conception of the softer, more sentimental side of life; she was there for discipline and order--Norris had been known to be led a fearful dance by young women "time and again"--Mrs. Newton had passionately adored the late Mr. Newton until a sudden chill had carried him to St. Agnes, Bare Street Cemetery, whither Mrs. Newton, every Sunday, did still make her stately pilgrimage--even Dorchester had once, it was said, paid grim attentions to a soldier who had, unhappily, found in some fluffy young woman a more hopeful comfort. Here, above and below stairs, passion had marked its victims ... Miss Rand only could have felt no touch of it.