Of all the emotions which kept me awake that night, a vaguediscomfort and a feeling of resentment against Fate more thanagainst any individual, were the two that remained with me nextmorning. Astonishment does not last. The fact of Audrey and myselfbeing under the same roof after all these years had ceased toamaze me. It was a minor point, and my mind shelved it in order todeal with the one thing that really mattered, the fact that shehad come back into my life just when I had definitely, as Ithought, put her out of it.

　　My resentment deepened. Fate had played me a wanton trick. Cynthiatrusted me. If I were weak, I should not be the only one tosuffer. And something told me that I should be weak. How could Ihope to be strong, tortured by the thousand memories which thesight of her would bring back to me?

　　But I would fight, I told myself. I would not yield easily. Ipromised that to my self-respect, and was rewarded with a certainglow of excitement. I felt defiant. I wanted to test myself atonce.

　　My opportunity came after breakfast. She was standing on thegravel in front of the house, almost, in fact, on the spot wherewe had met the night before. She looked up as she heard my step,and I saw that her chin had that determined tilt which, in thedays of our engagement, I had noticed often without attaching anyparticular significance to it. Heavens, what a ghastly lump ofcomplacency I must have been in those days! A child, I thought, ifhe were not wrapped up in the contemplation of his own magnificence,could read its meaning.

　　It meant war, and I was glad of it. I wanted war.

　　'Good morning,' I said.

　　'Good morning.'

　　There was a pause. I took the opportunity to collect my thoughts.

　　I looked at her curiously. Five years had left their mark on her,but entirely for the good. She had an air of quiet strength whichI had never noticed in her before. It may have been there in theold days, but I did not think so. It was, I felt certain, a laterdevelopment. She gave the impression of having been through muchand of being sure of herself.

　　In appearance she had changed amazingly little. She looked assmall and slight and trim as ever she had done. She was a littlepaler, I thought, and the Irish eyes were older and a shadeharder; but that was all.

　　I awoke with a start to the fact that I was staring at her. Aslight flush had crept into her pale cheeks.

　　'Don't!' she said suddenly, with a little gesture of irritation.

　　The word and the gesture killed, as if they had been a blow, akind of sentimental tenderness which had been stealing over me.

　　'What are you doing here?' I asked.

　　She was silent.

　　'Please don't think I want to pry into your affairs,' I saidviciously. 'I was only interested in the coincidence that weshould meet here like this.'

　　She turned to me impulsively. Her face had lost its hard look.

　　'Oh, Peter,' she said, 'I'm sorry. I _am_ sorry.'

　　It was my chance, and I snatched at it with a lack of chivalrywhich I regretted almost immediately. But I was feeling bitter,and bitterness makes a man do cheap things.

　　'Sorry?' I said, politely puzzled. 'Why?'

　　She looked taken aback, as I hoped she would.

　　'For--for what happened.'

　　'My dear Audrey! Anybody would have made the same mistake. I don'twonder you took me for a burglar.'

　　'I didn't mean that. I meant--five years ago.'

　　I laughed. I was not feeling like laughter at the moment, but Idid my best, and had the satisfaction of seeing that it jarredupon her.

　　'Surely you're not worrying yourself about that?' I said. Ilaughed again. Very jovial and debonair I was that winter morning.

　　The brief moment in which we might have softened towards eachother was over. There was a glitter in her blue eyes which told methat it was once more war between us.

　　'I thought you would get over it,' she said.

　　'Well,' I said, 'I was only twenty-five. One's heart doesn't breakat twenty-five.'

　　'I don't think yours would ever be likely to break, Peter.'

　　'Is that a compliment, or otherwise?'

　　'You would probably think it a compliment. I meant that you werenot human enough to be heart-broken.'

　　'So that's your idea of a compliment!'

　　'I said I thought it was probably yours.'

　　'I must have been a curious sort of man five years ago, if I gaveyou that impression.'

　　'You were.'

　　She spoke in a meditative voice, as if, across the years, she wereidly inspecting some strange species of insect. The attitudeannoyed me. I could look, myself, with a detached eye at the man Ihad once been, but I still retained a sort of affection for him,and I felt piqued.

　　'I suppose you looked on me as a kind of ogre in those days?' Isaid.

　　'I suppose I did.'

　　There was a pause.

　　'I didn't mean to hurt your feelings,' she said. And that was themost galling part of it. Mine was an attitude of studiedoffensiveness. I did want to hurt her feelings. But hers, itseemed to me, was no pose. She really had had--and, I suppose,still retained--a genuine horror of me. The struggle was unequal.

　　'You were very kind,' she went on, 'sometimes--when you happenedto think of it.'

　　Considered as the best she could find to say of me, it was not aneulogy.

　　'Well,' I said, 'we needn't discuss what I was or did five yearsago. Whatever I was or did, you escaped. Let's think of thepresent. What are we going to do about this?'

　　'You think the situation's embarrassing?'

　　'I do.'

　　'One of us ought to go, I suppose,' she said doubtfully.

　　'Exactly.'

　　'Well, I can't go.'

　　'Nor can I.'

　　'I have business here.'

　　'Obviously, so have I.'

　　'It's absolutely necessary that I should be here.'

　　'And that I should.'

　　She considered me for a moment.

　　'Mrs Attwell told me that you were one of the assistant-mastersat the school.'

　　'I am acting as assistant-master. I am supposed to be learning thebusiness.'

　　She hesitated.

　　'Why?' she said.

　　'Why not?'

　　'But--but--you used to be very well off.'

　　'I'm better off now. I'm working.'

　　She was silent for a moment.

　　'Of course it's impossible for you to leave. You couldn't, couldyou?'

　　'No.'

　　'I can't either.'

　　'Then I suppose we must face the embarrassment.'

　　'But why must it be embarrassing? You said yourself you had--gotover it.'

　　'Absolutely. I am engaged to be married.'

　　She gave a little start. She drew a pattern on the gravel with herfoot before she spoke.

　　'I congratulate you,' she said at last.

　　'Thank you.'

　　'I hope you will be very happy.'

　　'I'm sure I shall.'

　　She relapsed into silence. It occurred to me that, having postedher thoroughly in my affairs, I was entitled to ask about hers.

　　'How in the world did you come to be here?' I said.

　　'It's rather a long story. After my husband died--'

　　'Oh!' I exclaimed, startled.

　　'Yes; he died three years ago.'

　　She spoke in a level voice, with a ring of hardness in it, forwhich I was to learn the true reason later. At the time it seemedto me due to resentment at having to speak of the man she hadloved to me, whom she disliked, and my bitterness increased.

　　'I have been looking after myself for a long time.'

　　'In England?'

　　'In America. We went to New York directly we--directly I hadwritten to you. I have been in America ever since. I only returnedto England a few weeks ago.'

　　'But what brought you to Sanstead?'

　　'Some years ago I got to know Mr Ford, the father of the littleboy who is at the school. He recommended me to Mr Abney, whowanted somebody to help with the school.'

　　'And you are dependent on your work? I mean--forgive me if I ampersonal--Mr Sheridan did not--'

　　'He left no money at all.'

　　'Who was he?' I burst out. I felt that the subject of the dead manwas one which it was painful for her to talk about, at any rate tome; but the Sheridan mystery had vexed me for five years, and Ithirsted to know something of this man who had dynamited my lifewithout ever appearing in it.

　　'He was an artist, a friend of my father.'

　　I wanted to hear more. I wanted to know what he looked like, howhe spoke, how he compared with me in a thousand ways; but it wasplain that she would not willingly be communicative about him;and, with a feeling of resentment, I gave her her way andsuppressed my curiosity.

　　'So your work here is all you have?' I said.

　　'Absolutely all. And, if it's the same with you, well, here weare!'

　　'Here we are!' I echoed. 'Exactly.'

　　'We must try and make it as easy for each other as we can,' shesaid.

　　'Of course.'

　　She looked at me in that curious, wide-eyed way of hers.

　　'You have got thinner, Peter,' she said.

　　'Have I?' I said. 'Suffering, I suppose, or exercise.'

　　Her eyes left my face. I saw her bite her lip.

　　'You hate me,' she said abruptly. 'You've been hating me all theseyears. Well, I don't wonder.'

　　She turned and began to walk slowly away, and as she did so asense of the littleness of the part I was playing came over me.

　　Ever since our talk had begun I had been trying to hurt her,trying to take a petty revenge on her--for what? All that hadhappened five years ago had been my fault. I could not let her golike this. I felt unutterably mean.

　　'Audrey!' I called.

　　She stopped. I went to her.

　　'Audrey!' I said, 'you're wrong. If there's anybody I hate, it'smyself. I just want to tell you I understand.'

　　Her lips parted, but she did not speak.

　　'I understand just what made you do it,' I went on. 'I can see nowthe sort of man I was in those days.'

　　'You're saying that to--to help me,' she said in a low voice.

　　'No. I have felt like that about it for years.'

　　'I treated you shamefully.'

　　'Nothing of the kind. There's a certain sort of man who badlyneeds a--jolt, and he has to get it sooner or later. It happenedthat you gave me mine, but that wasn't your fault. I was bound toget it--somehow.' I laughed. 'Fate was waiting for me round thecorner. Fate wanted something to hit me with. You happened to bethe nearest thing handy.'

　　'I'm sorry, Peter.'

　　'Nonsense. You knocked some sense into me. That's all you did.

　　Every man needs education. Most men get theirs in small doses, sothat they hardly know they are getting it at all. My money kept mefrom getting mine that way. By the time I met you there was agreat heap of back education due to me, and I got it in a lump.

　　That's all.'

　　'You're generous.'

　　'Nothing of the kind. It's only that I see things clearer than Idid. I was a pig in those days.'

　　'You weren't!'

　　'I was. Well, we won't quarrel about it.'

　　Inside the house the bell rang for breakfast. We turned. As I drewback to let her go in, she stopped.

　　'Peter,' she said.

　　She began to speak quickly.

　　'Peter, let's be sensible. Why should we let this embarrass us,this being together here? Can't we just pretend that we're two oldfriends who parted through a misunderstanding, and have cometogether again, with all the misunderstanding cleared away--friendsagain? Shall we?'

　　She held out her hand. She was smiling, but her eyes were grave.

　　'Old friends, Peter?'

　　I took her hand.

　　'Old friends,' I said.

　　And we went in to breakfast. On the table, beside my plate, waslying a letter from Cynthia.