assumed a playful humility which, being admirably acted, almost passed for modesty.  But if by chance he had to listen to any praise of “Ena Armitage” as author or woman, he changed the subject as soon as he could conveniently do so without brusquerie.  And very gradually it dawned upon her that he took no pride in her work or in the position she had won, and that he was more reluctant than glad to hear her praised.  He seemed to prefer she should be unnoticed, save by himself, and more or less submissive to his will.  Had she been worldly-wise, she would by every action have moved a silent protest against this, his particular form of sex-dominance, but she was of too loving a nature to dispute any right of command he chose to assume.  Other men, younger and far higher in place and position than Jocelyn, admired her, and made such advances as they dared, finding her very coldness attractive, united as it was to such sweetness of manner as few could resist, but they had no chance with her.  Once or twice some of her women friends had sounded her on the subject of love and lovers, and she had put aside all their questions with a smile.  “Love is not to be talked about,” she had said—­“It is like God, served best in silence.”

But by scarcely perceptible degrees, busy rumour got hold of a thread or two of the clue leading to the labyrinth of her mystery,—­people nodded mysteriously at each other and began to whisper suggestions—­suggestions which certainly did not go very far, but just floated in the air like bits of thistledown.

“She is having her portrait painted, isn’t she?”

“Yes—­by that man with the queer name—­Amadis de Jocelyn.”

“Has she given him the commission?”

“Oh no!  I believe not.  He’s painting it for the French Salon.”

“Oh!”

Then there would follow a silence, with an exchange of smiles all round.  And presently the talk would begin again.

“Will it be a ‘case,’ do you think?”

“A ‘case’?  You mean a marriage?  Oh dear no!  Jocelyn isn’t a marrying man.”

“Isn’t she a little—­er—­well!—­a little taken with him?”

“Perhaps!  Very likely!  Clever women are always fools on one point —­if not on several!”

“And he?  Isn’t he very attentive?”

“Not more so than he has been and is to dozens of other women.  He’s too clever to show her any special attention—­it might compromise him.  He’s a man that takes care of Number One!”

So the gossip ran,—­and only Jocelyn himself caught wind of it sufficiently to set him thinking.  His “affaire de coeur” had gone far enough,—­and he realised that the time had come for him to beat a retreat.  But how to do it?  The position was delicate and difficult.  If Innocent had been an ordinary type of woman, vain and selfish, fond of frivolities and delighting in new conquests, his task would have been easy,—­but with a girl who believed in love as the ultimatum of all good, and who trusted her lover with implicit faith as next in order of worship to God, what was to be done?