“Count on my friendship, Hamil; it’s so valuable.  It has already quite ruined one person’s life, and will no doubt damage others before I flicker out.”

“What do you mean, Malcourt?”

“What I say, old fellow.  With the best intentions toward self-sacrifice I usually do irreparable damage to the objects of my regard.  Beware my friendship, Hamil.  There’s no luck in it or me....  But I do like you.”

He laughed and sauntered off into the house as Hamil’s horse was brought around; and Hamil, traversing the terrace, mounted under a running fire of badinage from Shiela and Cecile who had just come from the tennis-courts to attempt some hated embroidery for the charity fair then impending.

So he rode away to his duties in the forest, leaving a placid sewing-circle on the terrace.  From which circle, presently, Shiela silently detached herself, arms encumbered with her writing materials and silks.  Strolling aimlessly along the balustrade for a while, watching the bees scrambling in the scarlet trumpet-flowers, she wandered into the house and through to the cool patio.

For some days, now, after Hamil’s daily departure, it had happened that an almost unendurable restlessness akin to suspense took possession of her; a distaste and impatience of people and their voices, and the routine of the commonplace.

To occupy herself in idleness was an effort; she had no desire to.  She had recently acquired the hammock habit, lying for hours in the coolness of the patio, making no effort to think, listening to the splash of the fountain, her book or magazine open across her breast.  When people came she picked up the book and scanned its pages; sometimes she made pretence of sleeping.

But that morning, Malcourt, errant, found her reading in her hammock.  Expecting him to pass his way as usual, she nodded with civil indifference, and continued her reading.

“I want to ask you something,” he said, “if I may interrupt you.”

“What is it, Louis?”

“May I draw up a chair?”

“Why—­if you wish.  Is there anything I can do for you? “—­closing her book.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Shiela?”

A tinge of colour came into her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she said in curt negation.

“Are you quite sure?”

“Quite.  What do you mean?”

“There is one thing I might do for your sake,” he smiled—­“blow my bally brains out.”

She said in a low contemptuous voice:  “Better resort to that for your own sake than do what you are doing to Miss Suydam.”

“What am I doing to Miss Suydam?”

“Making love to her.”

He sat, eyes idly following the slight swaying motion of her hammock, the smile still edging his lips.

“Don’t worry about Miss Suydam,” he said; “she can take care of herself.  What I want to say is this:  Once out of mistaken motives—­which nobody, including yourself, would ever credit—­I gave you all I had to give—­my name....  It’s not much of a name; but I thought you could use it.  I was even fool enough to think—­other things.  And as usual I succeeded in injuring where I meant only kindness.  Can you believe that?”