too rigidified by stays.  In this desert of the dawn she let her long blue overcoat flap loose, and swung her hat on a finger, so that her light-brown, touched-up hair took the morning breeze with fluffy freedom.  Though she could not see herself, she appreciated her appearance, swaying along like that, past lonely trees and houses.  A pity there was no one to see her in that round of Regent’s Park, which took her the best part of an hour, walking in meditation, enjoying the colour coming back into the world, as if especially for her.

There was character in Leila Lynch, and she had lived an interesting life from a certain point of view.  In her girlhood she had fluttered the hearts of many besides Cousin Edward Pierson, and at eighteen had made a passionate love match with a good-looking young Indian civilian, named Fane.  They had loved each other to a standstill in twelve months.  Then had begun five years of petulance, boredom, and growing cynicism, with increasing spells of Simla, and voyages home for her health which was really harmed by the heat.  All had culminated, of course, in another passion for a rifleman called Lynch.  Divorce had followed, remarriage, and then the Boer War, in which he had been badly wounded.  She had gone out and nursed him back to half his robust health, and, at twenty-eight, taken up life with him on an up-country farm in Cape Colony.  This middle period had lasted ten years, between the lonely farm and an old Dutch house at High Constantia.  Lynch was not a bad fellow, but, like most soldiers of the old Army, had been quite carefully divested of an aesthetic sense.  And it was Leila’s misfortune to have moments when aesthetic sense seemed necessary.  She had struggled to overcome this weakness, and that other weakness of hers—­a liking for men’s admiration; but there had certainly been intervals when she had not properly succeeded.  Her acquaintance with Jimmy Fort had occurred during one of these intervals, and when he went back to England so abruptly, she had been feeling very tenderly towards him.  She still remembered him with a certain pleasure.  Before Lynch died, these “intervals” had been interrupted by a spell of returning warmth for the invalided man to whom she had joined her life under the romantic conditions of divorce.  He had failed, of course, as a farmer, and his death left her with nothing but her own settled income of a hundred and fifty pounds a year.  Faced by the prospect of having almost to make her living, at thirty-eight, she felt but momentary dismay—­for she had real pluck.  Like many who have played with amateur theatricals, she fancied herself as an actress; but, after much effort, found that only her voice and the perfect preservation of her legs were appreciated by the discerning managers and public of South Africa; and for three chequered years she made face against fortune with the help of them, under an assumed name.  What she did—­keeping a certain bloom of refinement, was far better than