Mallory took her hand in both his.

"You shall not have to cut yourself in half for me, dear friend," he said, with that touch of foreignness in his manner which revealed itself at times--not infrequently when he was concealing some strong feeling.

"We shall meet again--some day--Nan and I. But not now--not at present."

"She'll miss you, Peter. . . . You're _such_ a good pal!" Kitty gripped his hands hard and her voice was a trifle unsteady. After Barry, there was no one in the whole world she loved as much as she loved Peter. And she was powerless to help him.

"You'll be back in town soon," he answered her. "I shall come and see you sometimes. After all"--smiling a little--"Nan isn't constantly with you. She has her music." He paused a moment, then added gravely, with a quiet note of thankfulness in his voice: "As I, also, shall have my work."

There remained always that--work, the great palliative, a narcotic dulling the pain which, without it, would be almost beyond human endurance.

"Everything's just about as bad as it could be!"

Kitty's voice was troubled and the eyes that sought Lord St. John's lacked all their customary vivacity. The tall old man, pacing the quadrangle beside her in the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, made no comment for a moment. Then he said slowly:

"Yes, it's pretty bad. I'm sorry Mallory had to leave this morning."

"Oh, well," murmured Kitty vaguely, "a well-known writer like that often has to dash off to town in the middle of a holiday. Things crop up, you know"--still more vaguely.

St. John paused in the middle of his pacing and, putting his hand under Kitty's chin, tilted her face upward, scrutinising it with a kindly, quizzical gaze.

"Lookers-on see most of the game, my dear," he observed, "I've no doubts about the 'business' which called Mallory away."

"You've guessed, then?"

"I was there when we first thought Nan might be in danger last night--and I saw his face. Then I was sure. I'd only suspected before."

"I knew," said Kitty simply. "He told me in London. At first he didn't intend coming down to Mallow at all."

"Better, perhaps, if he'd kept to his intention," muttered St. John abstractedly. He was thinking deeply, his fine brows drawn together.

"You see, he--some of us thought Maryon had come back meaning to fix up things with Nan. So Peter kept out of the way. He thinks only of her--her happiness."

"His own is out of the question, poor devil!"

Kitty nodded.

"And the worst of it is," she went on, "I can't feel quite sure that Nan will be really happy with Roger. They're the last two people in the world to get on well together."

Lord St. John looked out across the sea, his shoulders a little stooped, his hands clasped behind his back. No one regretted Nan's precipitate engagement more than he, but he recognised that little good could be accomplished by interference. Moreover, to his scrupulous, old-world sense of honour, a promise, once given, was not to be broken at will.

"I'm afraid, my dear," he said at last, turning back to Kitty, "I'm afraid we've reached a _cul-de-sac_."

His tones were despondent, and Kitty's spirits sank a degree lower. She looked at him bleakly, and he returned her glance with one equally bleak.

Then, into this dejected council of two--cheerful, decided, and aboundingly energetic swept Aunt Eliza.

"Good afternoon, my dear," she said, making a peck at Kitty's cheek.

"That flunkey, idling his life away on the hall mat, said I should find you here, so I saved him from overwork by showing myself in. How are you, St. John? You're looking a bit peaky this afternoon, aren't you?"

"It's old age beginning to tell," laughed Lord St. John, shaking hands.

"Old age?--Fiddlesticks!" Eliza fumed contemptuously. "I suppose the truth is you're fashin' yourself because Nan's engaged to be married.

I've always said you were just like an old hen with one chick."

"I'd like to see the child with a nest of her own, all the same, Eliza."

"Hark to the man! And when 'tis settled she shall have the nest, he looks for all the world as though she had just fallen out of it!"

St. John wheeled round suddenly.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of--that some day she may . . . fall out of this particular nest that's building."

"And why should she do that?" demanded Eliza truculently. "Roger's as bonnie and brave a mate as any woman need look for, and Trenby Hall's a fine home to bring his bride to."

"Yes. But don't you see," explained Kitty, "it's all happened so suddenly. A little while ago we thought Nan cared for someone else and now we don't want her to rush off and tie herself up with anyone in a hurry--and be miserable ever after."

"I'm no' in favour of long engagements."

"In this case a little delay might have been wiser before any engagement was entered upon," said Lord St. John.

"I don't hold with delays--nor interfering between folks that have promised to be man and wife. The Almighty never intended us to play at being providence. If it's ordained for Nan to marry Roger Trenby--marry him she will. And the la.s.s is old enough to know her own mind; maybe you're wrong in thinking her heart's elsewhere."

Then, catching an expression of dissent on Kitty's face, she added shrewdly:

"Oh, I ken weel he's nae musician--but it's no' a few notes of the piano will be binding husband and wife together. 'Tis the wee bairns build the bridges we can cross in safety."

There was an unwontedly tender gleam in her hard-featured face. Kitty jumped up and kissed her impulsively.

"Aunt Eliza dear, you've a much softer heart than you pretend, and if Nan weren't happily married you'd be just as sorry as the rest of us."

"Perhaps Eliza's right," hazarded St. John rather uncertainly. "We may have been too ready to a.s.sume Nan won't be happy with the man she's chosen."

"I know Nan," persisted Kitty obstinately. "And I know she and Roger have really nothing in common."

"Then perhaps they'll find something after they're married," retorted Eliza, "and the looking for it will give a spice to life. There's many a man--ay, and woman, too!--who have fallen deeper in love after they've taken the plunge than ever they did while they were hovering on the brink."

"That may be true in some cases," responded St. John. "But you're advocating a big risk, Eliza."

"And there's mighty few things worth having in this world that aren't obtained at a risk," averred Mrs. McBain stoutly. "You've always been for wrapping Nan up in cotton wool, St. John--shielding her from this, protecting her from that! Sic' havers! She'd be more of a woman if you'd let her stand on her own feet a bit."

Lord St. John sighed.

"Well, she'll have to stand on her own feet henceforth," he said.

"What about the money?" demanded Eliza. "Are you still going to allow her the same income?"

"I think not," he answered thoughtfully. "That was to give her freedom of choice--freedom from matrimony if she wished. Well, she's chosen.