mood.  And then there were other men.  She had their photographs on her dressing-table, and liked each for some qualities the others did not possess in such a degree; but she liked them all because no one of them had the right to say “must” or even “you might” to her, and she fancied that the moment she gave one of them this right she would hate him cordially, and would fly to the others for sympathy; and she was not a young woman who thought that matrimony meant freedom to fly to any one but her husband for that.  But this one of the men was a little the worst; he made it harder for her to be quite herself.  She noticed that when she was with him she talked more about her feelings than with the other men, with whom she was satisfied to discuss the play, or what girl they wanted to take into dinner.  She had touches of remorse after these confidences to Wainwright, and wrote him brisk, friendly notes the next morning, in which the words “your friend” were always sure to appear, either markedly at the beginning or at the end, or tucked away in the middle.  She thought by this to unravel the web she might have woven the day before.  But she had apparently failed.  She stood up suddenly from pure nervousness, and crossed the room as though she meant to go to the piano, which was a very unfortunate move, as she seldom played, and never for him.  She sat down before it, nevertheless, rather hopelessly, and crossed her hands in front of her.  He had turned, and followed her with his eyes; they were very bright and eager, and her own faltered as she looked at them.

“You do not show much interest in the one thing that will bring me back,” he said.  He spoke reproachfully and yet a little haughtily, as though he had already half suspected she had guessed what he meant to say.

“Ah, you cannot tell how long you will be there,” she said, lightly.  “You will like it much more than you think.  I—­” she stopped hopelessly, and glanced, without meaning to do so, at the clock-face on the mantel beside him.

“Oh,” he said, with quick misunderstanding, “I beg your pardon, I am keeping you, I forgot how late it was, and you are going out.”  He came towards her as though he meant to go.  She stood up and made a quick, impatient gesture with her hands.  He was making it very hard for her.

“Fancy!” she said.  “You know I want to talk to you; what does the dance matter?  Why are you so unlike yourself?” she went on, gently.  “And it is our last night, too.”

The tone of her words seemed to reassure him, for he came nearer and rested his elbow beside her on the piano and said, “Then you are sorry that I am going?”

It was very hard to be unyielding to him when he spoke and looked as he did then; but she repeated to herself, “He will be gone to-morrow, and then I shall be so thankful that I did not bind myself—­that I am still free.  He will be gone, and I shall be so glad.  It will only be a minute now before he goes, and if I am strong I will rejoice at leisure.”  So she looked up at him without a sign of the effort it cost her, frankly and openly, and said, “Sorry?  Of course I am sorry.  One does not have so many friends that one can spare them for long, even to have them grow famous.  I think it is very selfish of you to go, for you are famous enough already.”