Adam Johnstone's Son. F. Marion Crawford

began Lady Fan, as though she were going to say something.

      But she checked herself and looked up at him quickly, chilled already by his humour. Clare thought that the woman’s voice shook a little, as she pronounced the name. Brook did not turn his head nor look down.

      “Yes?” he said, with a sort of interrogation. “What were you going to say?” he asked after a moment’s pause.

      She seemed to hesitate, for she did not answer at once. Then she glanced towards the hotel and looked down.

      “You won’t come back with us?” she asked, at last, in a pleading voice.

      “I can’t,” he answered. “You know I can’t. I’ve got to wait for them here.”

      “Yes, I know. But they are not here yet. I don’t believe they are coming for two or three days. You could perfectly well come on to Genoa with us, and get back by rail.”

      “No,” said Brook quietly, “I can’t.”

      “Would you, if you could?” asked the lady in white, and her tone began to change again.

      “What a question!” he laughed drily.

      “It is an odd question, isn’t it, coming from me?” Her voice grew hard, and she stopped. “Well—you know what it means,” she added abruptly. “You may as well answer it and have it over. It is very easy to say you would not, if you could. I shall understand all the rest, and you will be saved the trouble of saying things—things which I should think you would find it rather hard to say. ”

      “Couldn’t you say them, instead?” he asked slowly, and looking at her for the first time. He spoke gravely and coldly.

      “I!” There was indignation, real or well affected, in the tone.

      “Yes, you,” answered the man, with a shade less coldness, but as gravely as before. “You never loved me.”

      Lady Fan’s small white face was turned to his instantly, and Clare could see the fierce, hurt expression in the eyes and about the quivering mouth. The young girl suddenly realised that she was accidentally overhearing something which was very serious to the two speakers. It flashed upon her that they had not seen her where she sat in the shadow, and she looked about her hastily in the hope of escaping unobserved. But that was impossible. There was no way of getting out of the recess of the rock where the cross stood, except by coming out into the light, and no way of reaching the hotel except by crossing the open platform.

      Then she thought of coughing, to call attention to her presence. She would rise and come forward, and hurry across to the door. She felt that she ought to have come out of the shadows as soon as the pair had appeared, and that she had done wrong in sitting still. But then, she told herself with perfect justice that they were strangers, and that she could not possibly have foreseen that they had come there to quarrel.

      They were strangers, and she did not even know their names. So far as they were concerned, and their feelings, it would be much more pleasant for them if they never suspected that any one had overheard them than if she were to appear in the midst of their conversation, having evidently been listening up to that point. It will be admitted that, being a woman, she had a choice; for she knew that if she had been in Lady Fan’s place she should have preferred never to know that any one had heard her. She fancied what she should feel if any one should cough unexpectedly behind her when she had just been accused by the man she loved of not loving him at all. And of course the little lady in white loved Brook—she had called him “dear” that very afternoon. But that Brook did not love Lady Fan was as plain as possible.

      There was certainly no mean curiosity in Clare to know the secrets of these strangers. But all the same, she would not have been a human girl, of any period in humanity’s history, if she had not been profoundly interested in the fate of the woman before her. That afternoon she would have thought it far more probable that the woman should break the man’s heart than that she should break her own for him. But now it looked otherwise. Clare thought there was no mistaking the first tremor of the voice, the look of the white face, and the indignation of the tone afterwards. With a man, the question of revealing his presence as a third person would have been a point of honour. In Clare’s case it was a question of delicacy and kindness as from one woman to another.

      Nevertheless, she hesitated, and she might have come forward after all. Ten slow seconds had passed since Brook had spoken. Then Lady Fan’s little figure shook, her face turned away, and she tried to choke down one small bitter sob, pressing her handkerchief desperately to her lips.

      “Oh, Brook!” she cried, a moment later, and her tiny teeth tore the edge of the handkerchief audibly in the stillness.

      “It’s not your fault,” said the man, with an attempt at gentleness in his voice. “I couldn’t blame you, if I were brute enough to wish to.”

      “Blame me! Oh, really—I think you’re mad, you know!”

      “Besides,” continued the young man, philosophically, “I think we ought to be glad, don’t you?”

      “Glad? ”

      “Yes—that we are not going to break our hearts now that it’s over.”

      Clare thought his tone horribly business-like and indifferent.

      “Oh no! We sha’n’t break our hearts any more! We are not children.” Her voice was thin and bitter, with a crying laugh in it.

      “Look here, Fan!” said Brook suddenly. “This is all nonsense. We agreed to play together, and we’ve played very nicely, and now you have to go home, and I have got to stay here, whether I like it or not. Let us be good friends and say good-bye, and if we meet again and have nothing better to do, we can play again if we please. But as for taking it in this tragical way—why, it isn’t worth it.”

      The young girl crouching in the shadow felt as though she had been struck, and her heart went out with indignant sympathy to the little lady in white.

      “Do you know? I think you are the most absolutely brutal, cynical creature I ever met!” There was anger in the voice, now, and something more—something which Clare could not understand.

      “Well, I’m sorry,” answered the man. “I don’t mean to be brutal, I’m sure, and I don’t think I’m cynical either. I look at things as they are, not as they ought to be. We are not angels, and the millennium hasn’t come yet. I suppose it would be bad for us if it did, just now. But we used to be very good friends last year. I don’t see why we shouldn’t be again.”

      “Friends! Oh no!”

      Lady Fan turned from him and made a step or two alone, out through the moonlight, towards the house. Brook did not move. Perhaps he knew that she would come back, as indeed she did, stopping suddenly and turning round to face him again.

      “Brook,” she began more softly, “do you remember that evening up at the Acropolis—at sunset? Do you remember what you said?”

      “Yes, I think I do.”

      “You said that if I could get free you would marry me.”

      “Yes.” The man’s tone had changed suddenly.

      “Well—I believed you, that’s all.”

      Brook stood quite still, and looked at her quietly. Some seconds passed before she spoke again.

      “You did not mean it?” she asked sorrowfully.

      Still he said nothing.

      “Because you know,” she continued, her eyes fixed on his, “the position is not at all impossible. All things considered, I suppose I could have a divorce for the asking.”

      Clare started a little in the dark. She was beginning to guess something of the truth she could not understand. The man still said nothing, but he began to