“Yes,” I said, “that’s about it, old fellow.  ‘Guardian Angel’ is not a bad name for her.”

Afterwards I received the confidence of Bickley.

“Look here, Arbuthnot,” he said.  “I want to own up to something.  I think I ought to, because of certain things I have observed, in order to prevent possible future misunderstandings.”

“What’s that?” I asked innocently.

“Only this.  As you know, I have always been a confirmed bachelor on principle.  Women introduce too many complications into life, and although it involves some sacrifice, on the whole, I have thought it best to do without them and leave the carrying on of the world to others.”

“Well, what of it?  Your views are not singular, Bickley.”

“Only this.  While you were ill the sweetness of that Lady Yva and her wonderful qualities as a nurse overcame me.  I went to pieces all of a sudden.  I saw in her a realisation of every ideal I had ever entertained of perfect womanhood.  So to speak, my resolves of a lifetime melted like wax in the sun.  Notwithstanding her queer history and the marvels with which she is mixed up, I wished to marry her.  No doubt her physical loveliness was at the bottom of it, but, however that may be, there it was.”

“She is beautiful,” I commented; “though I daresay older than she looks.”

“That is a point on which I made no inquiries, and I should advise you, when your turn comes, as no doubt it will, to follow my example.  You know, Arbuthnot,” he mused, “however lovely a woman may be, it would put one off if suddenly she announced that she was—­let us say—­a hundred and fifty years old.”

“Yes,” I admitted, “for nobody wants to marry the contemporary of his great-grandmother.  However, she gave her age as twenty-seven years and three moons.”

“And doubtless for once did not tell the truth.  But, as she does not look more than twenty-five, I think that we may all agree to let it stand at that, namely, twenty-seven, plus an indefinite period of sleep.  At any rate, she is a sweet and most gracious woman, apparently in the bloom of youth, and, to cut it short, I fell in love with her.”

“Like Bastin,” I said.

“Bastin!” exclaimed Bickley indignantly.  “You don’t mean to say that clerical oaf presumed—­well, well, after all, I suppose that he is a man, so one mustn’t be hard on him.  But who could have thought that he would run so cunning, even when he knew my sentiments towards the lady?  I hope she told him her mind.”

“The point is, what did she tell you, Bickley?”

“Me?  Oh, she was perfectly charming!  It really was a pleasure to be refused by her, she puts one so thoroughly at one’s ease.”  (Here, remembering Bastin and his story, I turned away my face to hide a smile.) “She said—­what did she say exactly?  Such a lot that it is difficult to remember.  Oh! that she was not thinking of marriage.  Also, that she had not yet recovered from some recent love affair which left her heart sore, since the time of her sleep did not count.  Also, that her father would never consent, and that the mere idea of such a thing would excite his animosity against all of us.”