feminine, and those were just before the days when a certain masculinity was adopted as an ideal and girls took no pains not to be ugly. Helen, however she might join in our national passion for killing time and evading thought with the assistance of a ball, remained a woman too. That firm, full young bosom whose soft curves her golfing jersey so faithfully-for Rudd's peace of mind too faithfully-followed was also a resting-place for a tired child. Rudd knew that, and thrilled to the thought; but it brought him no nearer to familiarity. The miracle remained.

Some men, even as boys, have a freemasonry with the other sex. Rudd never had it, nor would he have chosen to; with all its agonies and doubts, he would not have foregone his awe.

And awe he felt in the presence of Helen, even when in an effort to bring the talk round to his own subject (as she in her kindness believed) she praised the wrong book or the wrong picture. Mrs. Henry Wood had long been her favourite novelist.

Rudd knew that Helen liked him, but that was all he knew; and she liked so many people. He was only one of the satellites of this dazzling luminary. Her frank friendliness with infernal young asses drove Rudd nearly mad. Discrimination is the thing.

Often when he suggested Lord's or the Oval, she would reply, "Oh, I can't. I promised to go with Billy Devereux," or, "I'm playing golf with Tommy Gatacre."

They were both, this Billy and this Tommy, and all the other Billies and Tommies in her vast acquaintance, expensive and idle youths, and into this set he, an indigent journalist, was proposing to break and bear away its very jewel!

No wonder he had bad nights.

Her people, too, were a difficulty. Her father was an amiable dilettante who showed Rudd his various treasures of art but maintained an aristocratic aloofness. Her mother, perfectly dressed, was always either coming into the house from a social event, or perfectly dressed, leaving the house to attend a social event. Her eldest brother, the barrister, read every book that came out, was personally acquainted with many superior authors, did a little amateur reviewing, and obviously had no belief in Rudd's powers. Her other brothers were at a public school, and proficient at games.

Add to these somewhat daunting circumstances two or three men-servants who were perfectly aware why Rudd came to the house.

He could hear them discuss him.

"After Miss Helen, he is!"

"Not her style, is he? I should say some of that Sandhurst lot had a better chance."

“Oh, you never know. The high-steppers often take a quiet one."

"What's he do?"

"I don't know. Newspaper man very likely, or

he might be a Government clerk. They've got all sorts there."

"Well, one thing's pat-she's too good for him.” "I should rather think so."

Whether or not these remarks were ever made, Rudd had no difficulty in hearing them. To some extent he could agree too.

And yet she had got to be his. How could he live without her?

But still he had said nothing-not at any rate in words. His deeps called to Helen's: that he knew. Did she know it? Did her deeps call to his? (One says deeps for the sake of convenience; but shallows also can call to shallows almost as though they were the real thing.)

And how to put the thing to the test? Ought he first to see her father? Some men would have done so; but how unromantic! Ask Helen first, and then see her father-that was the braver way.

But how ask her? In a letter? A letter would be fairer perhaps, because he could be precise in a letter: he could range the pros and cons (Oh yes; he meant to point out the disadvantages of an alliance with himself) with more cogency if he wrote. He was never an exact or very coherent speaker, and under emotion he might make the most ghastly hash of it. Yes, he would write.

This decision he carried about with him for a week. But he did not write, nor could he say how his proposal was actually made. All that he knew was

that ne went down to the Old Deer Park one afternoon to fetch Helen from a foursome; that they walked along the river to Kew Gardens talking about her handicap and nothing else in particular, and came out of the Gardens hand in hand.

CHAPTER XL

THE PRICE OF HAPPINESS

AFTER their engagement Rudd and Helen were

always together.

His work suffered and his friends missed him. Letter after letter came from Lavis (who after investigating the subject of medicine and surgery in various foreign cities was again in London), containing invitations for this ramble and that, for suppers, for London explorations. All had to be declined. Avon suggested various expeditions and mentioned that he was getting old and soon would not be up to such walks at all; and these too were declined, or accepted and then at the last minute cancelled by telegram. The first nightingale: they were to have heard that once again, a mile from Chingford; but Helen, all unconscious, intervened.

Rudd had a pang or two about his defections, for he knew that Avon counted on him; but he allowed the idea of his engagement to gloss over all. After all, a man's first duty is to his girl; there's nought so sweet in life as love's young dream; and so on. Besides, Rudd liked his pupil, for she was now his pupil