“Faint heart!” the Duchessa said.  “He ought to have told her.  The case was peculiar, was unique.  Ordinary rules could n’t apply to it.  And how could he be sure, after all, that she would n’t have despised the conventional barriers, as you call them?  Every man gets the wife he deserves—­and certainly he had gone a long way towards deserving her.  She could n’t have felt quite indifferent to him—­if he had told her; quite indifferent to the man who had drawn that magnificent Pauline from his vision of her.  No woman could be entirely proof against a compliment like that.  And I insist that it was her right to know.  He should simply have told her the story of his book and of her part in it.  She would have inferred the rest.  He needn’t have mentioned love—­the word.”

“Well,” said Peter, “it is not always too late to mend.  He may tell her some fine day yet.”

And in his soul two voices were contending.

“Tell her—­tell her—­tell her!  Tell her now, at once, and abide your chances,” urged one.  “No—­no—­no—­do nothing of the kind,” protested the second.  “She is arguing the point for its abstract interest.  She is a hundred miles from dreaming that you are the man—­hundreds of miles from dreaming that she is the woman.  If she had the least suspicion of that, she would sing a song as different as may be.  Caution, caution.”

He looked at her—­warm and fragrant and radiant, in her soft, white gown, in her low lounging-chair, so near, so near to him —­he looked at her glowing eyes, her red lips, her rich brown hair, at the white-and-rose of her skin, at the delicate blue veins in her forehead, at her fine white hands, clasped loosely together in her lap, at the flowing lines of her figure, with its supple grace and strength; and behind her, surrounding her, accessory to her, he was conscious of the golden August world, in the golden August weather—­of the green park, and the pure sunshine, and the sweet, still air, of the blue lake, and the blue sky, and the mountains with their dark-blue shadows, of the long marble terrace, and the gleaming marble facade of the house, and the marble balustrade, with the jessamine twining round its columns.  The picture was very beautiful—­but something was wanting to perfect its beauty; and the name of the something that was wanting sang itself in poignant iteration to the beating of his pulses.  And he longed and longed to tell her; and he dared not; and he hesitated . . . .

And while he was hesitating, the pounding of hoofs and the grinding of carriage-wheels on gravel reached his ears—­and so the situation was saved, or the opportunity lost, as you choose to think it.  For next minute a servant appeared on the terrace, and announced Mrs. O’Donovan Florence.

And shortly after that lady’s arrival, Peter took his leave.

XXI

Well, Trixie, and is one to congratulate you?” asked Mrs. O’Donovan Florence.