They talked on and on, conscious of the hands of the clock moving on towards their divided lives.  When it struck seven, she said he must go, but he begged to be allowed to stay till a quarter past, and in this last period he urged that their separation should not be final.  He pleaded that a time should be set on his alienation, and ended by extracting from her a sort of half promise that she would allow him to come and see her in three months.  But he and she knew that they would never meet again, and the sad thought floated up into their eyes as they said good-bye.  She went to the window, wondering if he would stay a moment to look back.  He stood on the edge of the pavement, and she watched him unmoved.  She was thinking of Monsignor, and of how he would approve of her conduct.  He would tell her that what she liked and disliked was no longer the question.  Owen still stood on the kerb, but she did not even see him.  Her eyes looked into the sunset, and she was thrilled with a mysterious joy, a joy that came from the heart, not from passions, and it was exquisitely subtle as the light that faded in the remote west.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

He walked up Park Lane, staring now and then at the quaint balconies from a mere habit of admiration.  But all were indifferent to him, even the one supported by the four Empire figures.  It did not seem that anything in the world could interest him again, and he wondered how he would get through the years that remained to him to live.  He was tired of hunting and shooting; he had seen everything there was to be seen; he had been round the world twice; it did not seem to him that he would ever care for another woman, and he reflected with pride that he had been faithful to Evelyn for six years.  “But I shall never see her again,” his heart wailed; “in three months she’ll be a different woman; she won’t want to see me, she’ll find some excuse.  That infernal priest will refuse his absolution if—­” Owen stopped suddenly.  Far away a little pink cloud dissolved mysteriously.  “In another second,” he thought, “it will be no more.”  In the Green Park the trees rocked in the soft autumn air, and he noticed that now and then a leaf broke from its twig, fluttered across the path, and fell by the iron railings.

“Well, Asher, how is it that you are in town at this time of year?”

It was a club acquaintance, one of the ordinary conventional men that Owen met by the dozen in every one of his clubs, a man whose next question would surely be, “How are your two-year-olds?”

“I should like to hear that they had all broken their legs,” Owen answered through his teeth, and the colour mounted in his cheeks.

“Asher always was mad ... now he seems madder than ever.  What did he mean by saying he wished his two-year-olds had all broken their legs?”

Owen lingered on the kerb, inveighing against the stupidity of his set.  He had thought of dining at the Turf Club, but after this irritating incident he felt that he dared not risk it; if anyone were to speak to him again of his two-year-olds, he felt he would not be able to control himself.  Suddenly he thought of a friend.  He must speak to someone....  He need mention no names.  He put up his stick and stopped a hansom.  A few minutes took him to Harding’s rooms.