“Why?” He held his palette arrested in mid-air and stared at her.

“He is doubtful of himself—­doubtful whether he is equal to so responsible a place.”

“Bah! it’s not an embassy.”

“No; but he fancies he has not the address, the social gifts—­in fact, he shrinks from it.”  Her face had taken on a soft distress; her eyes appealed to him.  She seemed to be confessing, for the other man, something that might well be misunderstood.  Jerome, ignoring the flag of her discomfort, went on painting, to give her room for confidence.

“Is it that old plague-spot?” he asked.  “Just what aspect does it bear to him?  Why not talk freely about it?”

“It is the old remorse.  He misunderstood his brother when they two were left alone in the world.  He forced the boy out of evil associations when he ought to have led him.  You know the rest of it.  The boy was desperate.  He killed himself.”

“When he was drunk.  Marshby wasn’t responsible.”

“No, not directly.  But you know that kind of mind.  It follows hidden causes.  That’s why his essays are so good.  Anyway, it has crippled him.  It came when he was too young, and it marked him for life.  He has an inveterate self-distrust.”

“Ah, well,” said Winner, including the summer landscape in a wave of his brush, “give up the consulship.  Let him give it up.  It isn’t as if he hadn’t a roof.  Settle down in his house there, you two, and let him write his essays, and you—­just be happy.”

She ignored her own part in the prophecy completely and finally.  “It isn’t the consulship as the consulship,” she responded.  “It is the life abroad I want for him.  It would give him—­well, it would give him what it has given you.  His work would show it.”  She spoke hotly, and at once Jerome saw himself envied for his brilliant cosmopolitan life, the bounty of his success fairly coveted for the other man.  It gave him a curious pang.  He felt, somehow, impoverished, and drew his breath more meagrely.  But the actual thought in his mind grew too big to be suppressed, and he stayed his hand to look at her.

“That’s not all,” he said.

“All what?”

“That’s not the main reason why you want him to go.  You think if he really asserted himself, really knocked down the spectre of his old distrust and stamped on it, he would be a different man.  If he had once proved himself, as we say of younger chaps, he could go on proving.”

“No,” she declared, in nervous loyalty.  She was like a bird fluttering to save her nest.  “No!  You are wrong.  I ought not to have talked about him at all.  I shouldn’t to anybody else.  Only, you are so kind.”

“It’s easy to be kind,” said Jerome, gently, “when there’s nothing else left us.”

She stood wilfully swaying a branch of the tendrilled arbor, and, he subtly felt, so dissatisfied with herself for her temporary disloyalty that she felt alien to them both:  Marshby because she had wronged him by admitting another man to this intimate knowledge of him, and the other man for being her accomplice.