had been the cause of it.  Looking at the circumstance now, he could see, allowing for human frailty-perhaps a wish to join the ranks of the wealthy compassion for the woman as the principal motive.  How often had she not in those old days praised his generosity for allying his golden youth to her withered age—­Mrs. Burman’s very words!  And she was a generous woman or had been:  she was generous in saying that.  Well, and she was generous in having a well-born, well-bred beautiful young creature like Nataly for her companion, when it was a case of need for the dear girl; and compassionately insisting, against remonstrances:  they were spoken by him, though they were but partial.  How, then, had she become—­at least, how was it that she could continue to behave as the vindictive Fury who persecuted remorselessly, would give no peace, poisoned the wells round every place where he and his dear one pitched their tent!

But at last she had come to charity, as he could well believe.  Not too late!  Victor’s feeling of gratitude to Mrs. Burman assured him it was genuine because of his genuine conviction, that she had determined to end her incomprehensibly lengthened days in reconcilement with him:  and he had always been ready to ‘forget and forgive.’  A truly beautiful old phrase!  It thrilled off the most susceptible of men.

His well-kept secret of the spacious country-house danced him behind a sober demeanour from one park to another; and along beside the drive to view of his townhouse—­unbeloved of the inhabitants, although by acknowledgement it had, as Fredi funnily drawled, to express her sense of justice in depreciation, ‘good accommodation.’  Nataly was at home, he was sure.  Time to be dressing:  sun sets at six-forty, he said, and glanced at the stained West, with an accompanying vision of outspread primroses flooding banks of shadowy fields near Lakelands.

He crossed the road and rang.

Upon the opening of the door, there was a cascade of muslin downstairs. 
His darling Fredi stood out of it, a dramatic Undine.

CHAPTER VI

NATALY

‘Il segreto!’ the girl cried commandingly, with a forefinger at his breast.

He crossed arms, toning in similar recitative, with anguish, ’Dove volare!’

They joined in half a dozen bars of operatic duet.

She flew to him, embraced and kissed.

’I must have it, my papa! unlock.  I’ve been spying the bird on its hedgerow nest so long!  And this morning, my own dear cunning papa, weren’t you as bare as winter twigs?  “Tomorrow perhaps we will have a day in the country.”  To go and see the nest?  Only, please, not a big one.  A real nest; where mama and I can wear dairymaid’s hat and apron all day—­the style you like; and strike roots.  We’ve been torn away two or three times:  twice, I know.’

‘Fixed, this time; nothing shall tear us up,’ said her father, moving on to the stairs, with an arm about her.