The dusk was falling when he returned by the Heath Road, dusty and thoroughly fatigued. He glanced wistfully at the Merriams’ house as he sped by. The lights were not yet lit. It bore a strange aspect of desertion. For a moment he felt the impulse to turn and seek admittance, get through the strange first interview, whose indefinite postponement was growing stranger still. Irene’s sensitiveness he could understand; besides, she had written twice. But Gerard’s silence was unaccountable. Was he waiting, despite Irene’s messages, for him to take the initiative? The temptation was strong; but obedience to Irene prevailed. He went on, letting his weary mind drift on trivial matters. He would have a meal, smoke, and sleep like a log. It would be the first sound, unstirring sleep for many weeks. The night before he had had a shivering dream of Minna, which had kept him awake till morning. Where was she? He wondered vaguely. Suddenly a figure crossing the road in front of him caused him to ring his bell. The figure turned. He recognised Irene. In a second he had dismounted and was by her side. She extended her hand, looked at him frankly in the waning light. “Fate has arranged it for us,” he said. “If you knew how I have been hungering for speech with you!” “I couldn’t send for you,” she replied. “There were reasons----” “I know. I have waited patiently. But you feel what I have to express somehow to you and Gerard.” “You mustn’t see Gerard,” she said, with a little break in her voice. “I think it would be best if you did not see me, either. What is the good of words to thank me? We understand each other too well to need them. Couldn’t you go away for a holiday somewhere? It would be the best for all of us. You mustn’t be hurt--indeed, you mustn’t. But you will do what I ask you?” “Anything in the wide world. In fact, I am going abroad with Cahusac. I was only waiting until I had seen you. But I don’t understand----” He stopped, regarded her anxiously. In spite of the falling darkness, he could see that she looked thoroughly ill. “I may as well tell you at once,” she said, with quiet abruptness, moving a step nearer to him and laying her fingers on the bicycle handle. “You are making the same mistake as I did--reckoning on Gerard’s acquiescence. He is unspeakably angry. We have quarrelled over it. That is why I didn’t send for you. If you could do anything, I should ask you. But it is a matter solely concerning the two of us. Time will set it right.” She spoke so quietly that he never suspected the truth. On the other hand, he could well realise that, Gerard not consenting, the public sacrifice of his honour should arouse his furious indignation. His conception of the breach between Irene and Gerard was sufficient in itself to keep him speechless with pain and remorse. “It wasn’t your fault, dear Hugh,” she said, at length, comfortingly. “And don’t think I regret what I did. Gerard will see it in the same light as myself some day.”