the flowers had soothed and comforted Cicely—at least until the mutual friend wrote that Roger was recovering. Then it disturbed and filled her with vague alarm.
Cicely leaned back against the pillows of her chaise-longue now, and closed her eyes a moment, before opening Roger's letter. He would not consider the flowers more than a gracious acknowledgment, probably, of an old friendship that had long been asleep. The card that had accompanied them had borne simply her name.
It had been she, thank Heaven, not Roger, who had given that friendship its sleep-potion so many years ago. She had that to remember for her pride's sake. When once she had become convinced that Roger felt little of the compelling force that made life intolerable to her as long as he was within her reach, and yet not with her, or at least, in constant communication with her, she had put him beyond her reach.
She recalled now the evening she had told him that she was going to Europe for a year or more, and how, to his light and careless reply, 'But you'll write often, of course,' she had quietly rejoined, 'No, I think we had better not write at all, Roger.'
That had been several months after the memorable Sunday he had spent with her in Wallbridge, when he had so failed to satisfy her. She had been tremu-
