“I couldn’t disappoint him now.  You see that, John?” said the anxious, gentle voice.

“I am afraid I do see it, Mary,” he said.  “Our secret must remain our secret for the present.”

“God bless you, John!” said Lady Mary, softly.  “You always understand.”

“I am old enough, at least, to know that happiness cannot be attained by setting duty aside,” he said, as cheerfully as he could.

There was a pause in the music outside, and a voice was heard speaking.

John rose and straightened himself.

“Have you decided what is to be done—­what we had best do?” she said timidly.

“I am going to prove that a lover can be devoted, and yet perfectly reasonable; in defiance of all tradition to the contrary,” he said gaily.  “I shall return to town as soon as I can decently get away—­probably to-morrow.”

She uttered a cry.  “You are going to leave me?”

“I must give place to Peter.”

She came to his side, and clung to his arm as though terrified by the success of her own appeal.

“But you’ll come back?”

“I have to account for my stewardship when Peter comes of age in the autumn,” he said, smiling down upon her.

She was too quick of perception not to know that strength, and courage, too, were needed for the smile wherewith John strove to hide a disappointment too deep for words.  He answered the look she gave him; a look which implored forgiveness, understanding, even encouragement.

“I’m not yielding a single inch of my claim upon you when the time comes, my darling; only I think, with you, that the time has not come yet.  I think Peter may reasonably expect to be considered first for the present; and that you should be free to devote your whole attention to him, especially as he has such praiseworthy intentions.  We will postpone the whole question until the autumn, when he comes of age; and when I shall, consequently, be able to tackle him frankly, man to man, and not as one having authority and abusing that same,” he laughed.  “Meantime, we must be patient.  Write often, but not so often as to excite remark; and I shall return in the autumn.”

“To stay?”

“Ah!” said John, “that depends on you.”

He had not meant to be satirical, but the slight inflection of his tone cut Lady Mary to the heart.

Her vivid imagination saw her conduct in its worst light:  vacillating, feeble, deserting the man she loved at the moment she had led him to expect triumph; dismissing her faithful servant without his reward.  Then, in a flash, came the other side of the picture—­the mother of a grown-up son—­a wounded soldier dependent on her love—­seeking her personal happiness as though there existed no past memories, no present duties, to hinder the fulfilling of her own belated romance.

“Oh, John,” said Lady Mary, “tell me what to do?  No, no; don’t tell me—­or I shall do it—­and I mustn’t.”