From Clive she heard nothing: and she wrote to him no more. Of him she

did hear from time to time--mere scraps of conversation caught, a word

or two volunteered, some careless reference, perhaps, perhaps some

scrap of intentional information or some comment deliberate if not a

trifle malicious.

But to all who mentioned him in her presence she turned a serene face

and unclouded eyes. On the surface she was not to be read concerning

what she thought of Clive Bailey--if indeed she thought about him at

all.

Meanwhile he had married Winifred Stuart in London, where, it

appeared, they had taken a house for the season. All sorts of

honourables and notables and nobles as well as the resident and

visiting specimens of a free and sovereign people had been bidden to

the wedding. And had joyously repaired thither--the bride being

fabulously wealthy and duly presented at Court.

The American Ambassador was there with the entire staff of the

Embassy; also a king in exile, several famished but receptive dukes

and counts and various warriors out of jobs--all magnetised by the

subtle radiations from the world's most powerful loadstone, money.

They said that Mrs. Bailey, Sr., was very beautiful and impressive in

a gown that hypnotised the peeresses--or infuriated them--nobody

seemed to know exactly which.

Cecil Reeve, lounging on the balcony by the open window one May

evening, said to Hargrave--and probably really unconscious that

Athalie could hear him if she cared to: "Well, he got her all

right--or rather his mother got her. When he wakes up he'll be sick

enough of her millions."

Hargrave said: "She's a cold-blooded little proposition. I've known

Winifred Stuart all my life, and I never knew her to have any impulse

except a fishy one."

"Cold as a cod," nodded Cecil. "Merry times ahead for Clive."

And on another occasion, later in the summer, somebody said in the

cool dusk of the room: "It's true that the Bailey Juniors are living permanently in England.

I saw Clive in Scotland when I was fishing out Banff way. He says

they're remaining abroad indefinitely."

Some man's voice asked how Clive was looking.

"Not very fit; thin and old. I was with him several times that month

and I never saw him crack a smile. That's not like him, you know."

"What is it? His wife?"

"Well, I fancy it lies somewhere between his mother and his wife--this

pre-glacial freeze-up that's made a bally mummy of him."

And still again, and in the tobacco-scented dusk of Athalie's room,

and once more from a man who had just returned from abroad: "I kept running into Clive everywhere. He seems to haunt the

continent, turning up like a ghost here and there; and believe me he

looks the part of the lonely spook."




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