“Why, then, not come with us?  You’ll sign the agreement?”

And they walked towards Bayswater together, talking from time to time, Ulick trying not to say anything which would disturb her resolution, though he had heard Owen say that once she had made a promise she never went back upon it.

There was all next day to be disposed of, but he would be very busy, and she would be busy too; she would have to make arrangements, so perhaps it would be better they should not meet.

“Then, at the railway station the day after to-morrow,” and he bade her goodbye at her door.

Owen was in his study writing.

“I didn’t know you had returned, Asher.”

“I came back this afternoon,” and he was on the point of adding, “and saw you with Evelyn as I drove through the park.”  But the admission was so painful a one to make that it died upon his lips, finding expression only in a look of suffering—­a sort of scared look, which told Ulick that something had happened.  Could it be that Owen had seen them in the park sitting under the limes?  That long letter on the writing-table, which Owen put away so mysteriously—­could it be to Evelyn?  Ulick had guessed rightly.  Owen had seen them in the park, and he was writing to Evelyn telling her that he could bear a great deal, but it was cruel and heartless for her to sit with Ulick under the same trees.  He had stopped in the middle of the letter remembering that it might prevent her from going away with Ulick, and so throw her back into the power of Monsignor.  Even so, he must write his letter; one has oneself to consider, and he could bear it no longer.

“I see you are writing, and I have many letters to write.  You will excuse me?” And Ulick went to his room.  After writing his letters, he sent word to Owen that he was dining out.  “He will think I am dining with her, but no matter; anything is better than that we two should sit looking at each other all through the evening, thinking of one thing and unable to speak about it.”

Next day he was out all day transacting business, thinking in the intervals, “To-morrow morning she will be in the station,” sometimes asking himself if Owen had written to her.

But the letter he had caught sight of on Owen’s table had not been posted.  “After all, what is the good in writing a disagreeable letter to her?  If she is going away with Ulick what does it matter under what trees they sat?” Yet everything else seemed to him nothing compared with the fact that she and Ulick had pursued their courtship under the limes facing the Serpentine; and Owen wondered at himself.  “We are ruled by trifles,” he said; all the same he did not send the letter.

And that night Owen and Ulick bade each other goodbye for the last time.

“Perhaps I shall see you later on in the year; in about six months’ time we shall be back in London.”

Owen could not bring himself to ask if Evelyn had accepted the engagement—­what was the good?  To ask would be a humiliation, and he would know to-morrow; the porter at her flat would tell him whether she was in London.