Euphrasia’s lips were tightly closed.  Long ago the idol of her youth had faded into the substance of which dreams are made—­to be recalled by dreams alone; another worship had filled her heart, and Austen Vane had become—­for her—­the fulness and the very meaning of life itself; one to be admired of all men, to be desired of all women.  Visions of Austen’s courtship had at times risen in her mind, although Euphrasia would not have called it a courtship.  When the time came, Austen would confer; and so sure of his judgment was Euphrasia that she was prepared to take the recipient of the priceless gift into her arms.  And now!  Was it possible that a woman lived who would even hesitate?  Curiosity seized Euphrasia with the intensity of a passion.  Who was this woman?  When and where had he seen her?  Ripton could not have produced her—­for it was characteristic of Euphrasia that no girl of her acquaintance was worthy to be raised to such a height; Austen’s wife would be an unknown of ideal appearance and attainments.  Hence indignation rocked Euphrasia, and doubts swayed her.  In this alone she had been an idealist, but she might have known that good men were a prey to the unworthy of the opposite sex.

She glanced at Austen’s face, and he smiled at her gently, as though he divined something of her thoughts.

“If it isn’t your fault, that you’re not happy, then the matter’s easily mended,” she said.

He shook his head at her, as though in reproof.

“Was yours—­easily mended?” he asked.

Euphrasia was silent a moment.

“He never knew,” she repeated, in a low voice.

“Well, Phrasie, it looks very much as if we were in the same boat,” he said.

Euphrasia’s heart gave a bound.

“Then you haven’t spoke!” she cried; “I knew you hadn’t.  I—­I was a woman—­but sometimes I’ve thought I’d ought to have given him some sign.  You’re a man, Austen; thank God for it, you’re a man.  If a man loves a woman, he’s only got to tell her so.”

“It isn’t as simple as that,” he answered.

Euphrasia gave him a startled glance.

“She ain’t married?” she exclaimed.

“No,” he said, and laughed in spite of himself.

Euphrasia breathed again.  For Sarah Austen had had a morality of her own, and on occasions had given expression to extreme views.

“She’s not playin’ with you?” was Euphrasia’s next question, and her tone boded ill to any young person who would indulge in these tactics with Austen.

He shook his head again, and smiled at her vehemence.

“No, she’s not playing with me—­she isn’t that kind.  I’d like to tell you, but I can’t—­I can’t.  It was only because you guessed that I said anything about it.”  He disengaged his hand, and rose, and patted her on the cheek.  “I suppose I had to tell somebody,” he said, “and you seemed, somehow, to be the right person, Phrasie.”

Euphrasia rose abruptly and looked up intently into his face.  He thought it strange afterwards, as he drove along the dark roads, that she had not answered him.