She felt herself trembling a little at the queer intensity of his tone. It was as though the man beside her were keeping in check, by sheer force of will, some big emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. She hesitated, then spoke very quietly and simply: "That was a perfectly selfish question on my part, Peter. Don't take any notice of it." "How--selfish?" he asked, with a faint smile. "Because, if you refuse to meet Nan, I shall always have to see you separately--never together. I love you both and I can't give up either of you, so it will be rather like cutting myself in half." Mallory took her hand in both his. "You shall not have to cut yourself in half for me, dear friend," he said, with that touch of foreignness in his manner which revealed itself at times--not infrequently when he was concealing some strong feeling. "We shall meet again--some day--Nan and I. But not now--not at present." "She'll miss you, Peter. . . . You're _such_ a good pal!" Kitty gripped his hands hard and her voice was a trifle unsteady. After Barry, there was no one in the whole world she loved as much as she loved Peter. And she was powerless to help him. "You'll be back in town soon," he answered her. "I shall come and see you sometimes. After all"--smiling a little--"Nan isn't constantly with you. She has her music." He paused a moment, then added gravely, with a quiet note of thankfulness in his voice: "As I, also, shall have my work." There remained always that--work, the great palliative, a narcotic dulling the pain which, without it, would be almost beyond human endurance. * * * * * * "Everything's just about as bad as it could be!" Kitty's voice was troubled and the eyes that sought Lord St. John's lacked all their customary vivacity. The tall old man, pacing the quadrangle beside her in the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, made no comment for a moment. Then he said slowly: "Yes, it's pretty bad. I'm sorry Mallory had to leave this morning." "Oh, well," murmured Kitty vaguely, "a well-known writer like that often has to dash off to town in the middle of a holiday. Things crop up, you know"--still more vaguely. St. John paused in the middle of his pacing and, putting his hand under Kitty's chin, tilted her face upward, scrutinising it with a kindly, quizzical gaze. "Lookers-on see most of the game, my dear," he observed, "I've no doubts about the 'business' which called Mallory away." "You've guessed, then?" "I was there when we first thought Nan might be in danger last night--and I saw his face. Then I was sure. I'd only suspected before." "I knew," said Kitty simply. "He told me in London. At first he didn't intend coming down to Mallow at all." "Better, perhaps, if he'd kept to his intention," muttered St. John abstractedly. He was thinking deeply, his fine brows drawn together.