that first glamour is past.  Really, such a supposition is not only puerile but irreverent.  It is the conventional supposition, I grant, and theoretically, the unvarying supposition of the Church; but God has given us reasoning powers to use fearlessly—­not to be kept superstitiously in the shackles of any tradition whatsoever.  Why, the very Church itself from its founding is an example of the wisdom of violating tradition when it shall seem meet—­it has always had to do this.”

“I see, Allan—­every case must be judged by itself; every marriage requires a special ruling—­”

“Well—­er—­exactly—­only don’t get to fancying that you could solve these problems.  It’s difficult enough for a priest.”

“Oh, I’m positive a mere woman couldn’t grapple with them—­she hasn’t the mind to!  All she is capable of is to choose who shall think for her.”

“And of course it would hardly do to announce that I had counselled a certain procedure of divorce and re-marriage—­no matter how flagrant the abuse, nor how obvious the spiritual equity of the step.  People at large are so little analytical.”

“‘Flexible,’ Mr. Browett told his sister you were.  He was right—­you are flexible, Allan—­more so than I ever suspected.”

“Nance—­you please me—­you are a good girl.  Now I’m going up to Bernal.  Bernal certainly pleases me.  Of course I shall do the handsome thing by him if he acts along the lines our talk has indicated.”

She still sat in the falling dusk, in the chair she had taken two hours before, when Aunt Bell came in, dressed for dinner.

“Mercy, child!  Do you know how late it is?”

“What did you say, Aunt Bell?”

“I say do you know how late it is?”

“Oh—­not too late!”

“Not too late—­for what?”

There was a pause, then she said:  “Aunt Bell, when a woman comes to make her very last effort at self-deception, why does she fling herself into it with such abandon—­such pretentious flourishes of remorse—­and things?  Is it because some under layer of her soul knows it will be the last and will have it a thorough test?  I wonder how much of an arrant fraud a woman may really be to herself, even in her surest, happiest moments.”

“There you are again, wondering, wondering—­instead of accepting things and dressing for dinner.  Have you seen Allan?”

“Oh, yes—­I’ve been seeing him for three days—­through a glass, darkly.”

Aunt Bell flounced on into the library, trailing something perilously near a sniff.

Bernal came down the stairs and stood in the door.

“Well, Nance!” He went to stand before her and she looked up to him.  There was still light enough to see his eyes—­enough to see, also, that he was embarrassed.

“Well—­I’ve had quite a talk with Allan.”  He laughed a little constrained, uneasy laugh, looking quickly at her to see if she might be observing him.  “He’s the same fine old chap, isn’t he?” Quickly his eyes again sought her face.  “Yes, indeed, he’s the same old boy—­a great old Allan—­only he makes me feel that I have changed, Nance.”