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May I find your stories as good as I expect to." Cicely smiled back at him. Her face was scarlet, for the coupling of their names, and Drexley's quiet smile, was significant. But Douglas only laughed gaily as he reached for his hat, and drew Cicely's feather boa around her with a little air of protection. "Good night, Drexley," he said.
"I have so much, that although I was with her on that terrible evening, and have written to her time after time, I have never had a line from her since she left England." Drexley laughed oddly. "You, too," he exclaimed. "Your day is over then. Well, it was a short and a merry one. You bear it well, my young friend." Douglas shrugged his shoulders, but avoided Drexley's earnest gaze.
Yet the very fascination of that smile which parted her lips was like a chill warning to him. "I will tell you who it was who has been talking to me," he said. "It is a clerk of Drexley's, a man named Rice." She nodded. "I thought so. Poor boy. He will never forgive me." "For what?" Douglas asked quickly. That was the crux of the whole matter. "For his own folly," she answered quietly.
The brutal selfishness of love and of youth swept from his memory Strong's broken life and Drexley's despair. "Nothing," he cried, "so long as you will care for me. I am not your judge. I want you you, Emily, and your love. To-night I care for nothing else." She laid her soft fingers upon his eager face, half caressingly, half in repulse. "I never wished them harm," she said.
Here and there the touches were lurid enough, but there was plenty of graceful relief, every sentence seemed pervaded with that unerring sense of the truthful and artistic which was the outcome of the man's genius. Drexley's words were ready enough in the open streets with the fresh wind in their faces and the sunshine streaming around.
"And have you told Miss Strong," Drexley continued, "that you are proposing to marry her, but that you love another woman?" Douglas looked up frowning. Drexley's tone had become almost contemptuous. "Do you think that you are behaving fairly to her?" he asked. "Remember that she is not the child with whom you used to talk sentiment in your little Cumberland village.
It was not in his nature to grudge any man his salvation. "Sorry, old chap," he called up. "Good luck to you." He walked down the street with the echo of Drexley's cheerful reply still in his ears. Again Douglas found himself face to face with a future emptied of all delight, only this time as a saner and an older man.
I always take a fin instead of a savoury, and I shall take the liberty of ordering one for you, Jesson, and a creme de menthe for Miss Strong." "You're very good," Douglas answered. The order was given to the head-waiter himself, who stood by Drexley's chair. Drexley raised his little glass and bowed to the girl. "I drink your health, Miss Strong," he said, gravely, "and yours, Jesson.
Jesson to write you more stories as good as 'No Man's Land." Drexley looked up at her with a grim smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "Yes," he said, quietly. "It was a good story, although I am afraid we rather humbugged Jesson about it. I'm not at all sure that he'll trust us with another." She returned Drexley's look with a stare of non-comprehension.
She rested her fingers almost affectionately on Drexley's shoulder, and the new flush of colour in his cheeks faded into sallowness at her touch. "Here are two at least of my friends who have proved faithless," she said, lightly. "I have been abroad for ah! how long it seems one, two, three months, and neither of you has bidden me welcome back to this wonderful city."
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