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that his embrace, to be successful, needed co-operation from her.
    â€œThat won’t stop me,” she said coolly. “I’m not coming alone to your study again, either. I can’t stand people’s looks in this place. That caretaker, for instance. She’s always waiting at the door when we go out. She looks at me as though I were—dirty. I can’t stand it any longer.”
    â€œI’ll dismiss her to-morrow!” he blustered.
    â€œNo, it would only make matters worse. Everyone is sorry for her .”
    He knew that this time she did not refer to the caretaker. He took her hands in his, and pleaded with her.
    â€œCharity, have pity on me. Don’t send me back without hope to my prison. If you do, I shall do something desperate. I know that all the little things you speak of seem important to you, but, darling, that’s only because you’re so young. I’m so much older than you, and when love comes to a man late in life, he has to snatch at the chance of happiness it offers to him, quickly and greedily. He knows that it is far more important than trying to build up a respectable life in the eyes of other people.”
    Charity shook her head sadly.
    â€œWe could be so happy, Charity, you and I. What does it matter what other people think? I’d do anything in the world for you. You don’t realise how much you mean to me. Come away with me!”
    â€œNo.”
    Knowing that her lips were out of reach, he bent down, and covered her hands with kisses.
    â€œMy darling, come with me!”
    But however much Mr. Hardstaffe might invite comparison with Faust, Charity had no intention of becoming another Marguerite.
    â€œI can’t,” she said firmly. “Not as long as she is alive.”
    Hardstaffe dropped her hands, and moved away from her.
    â€œI was afraid you would say that,” he said. “Well, now I know what to do.”

CHAPTER 2
    While all this was taking place, she was sitting alone in the drawing-room, frowning over a Service helmet, with earflaps, on which she had been engaged since the outbreak of war.
    It was a long, graceful room, exquisitely furnished and decorated, for Mrs. Hardstaffe had excellent taste, and Mr. Hardstaffe believed in living up to his wife’s income.
    Although the day was mild and sunny, a huge fire burned in the grate, and Mrs. Hardstaffe shivered audibly as she sat as near to it as she felt she could do without appearing unladylike. Soon the door opened, and a rosy-cheeked maid in black uniform with white apron, cap, and cuffs, wheeled in the tea-trolley with an apologetic air.
    Mrs. Hardstaffe looked up at her over the horn-rimmed spectacles she habitually wore when knitting or reading.
    â€œTea? Are you sure it's five o’clock, Briggs? You know the master doesn’t like tea brought in a minute before five. He’s never in to tea, I know, but that makes no difference. He would be most annoyed if I didn’t wait until five.”
    â€œYes madam.” Briggs inclined a respectful, neat head. “But it’s after five by the wireless. They’d started talking in Welsh when I wetted the tea.”
    Mrs. Hardstaffe brightened, and thrust her knitting down the side of the chair.
    â€œIs it?” she smiled. “Well then, I can have a cup of tea. Not that I can say I enjoy it so much these days— you make it so weak now that it’s rationed—but still, it will be hot, and I feel so cold to-day, so very cold.”
    She raised the heavy, hall-marked Georgian teapot over a pink-patterned Limoges cup, then hesitated.
    â€œYou’re sure the master hasn’t come in?” she asked.
    â€œQuite sure, madam. There’s a gentleman waiting for him in the morning-room. A Mr. Smith. He seemed a bit upset-like at not being expected, but I’m sure no one told me or Cook that he was coming, and I’d be obliged if you’d say as much to the master, madam, so that