The Golden Silence

								

him, it would be doubly weak--worse than weak, Stephen thought--to throw
her over now. It would look to the world as if he were a coward, and it
would look to himself the same--which would be more painful in the end.
So he could listen to no advice, and he wished to hear none. Fortunately
he was not in love with any other woman. But then, if he had loved
somebody else, he would not have made the foolish mistake of saying
those unlucky, irrevocable words to Margot.
Stephen would have liked to get away from England for a while, but he
hardly knew where to look for a haven. Since making a dash through
France and Italy just after leaving Oxford, he had been too busy amusing
himself in his own country to find time for any other, with the
exception of an occasional run over to Paris. Now, if he stopped in
England it would be difficult to evade officious friends, and soon
everybody would be gossiping about his quarrel with Northmorland. The
Duchess was not reticent.
Stephen had not yet made up his mind what to do, or whether to do
anything at all in his brief interval of freedom, when a letter came, to
the flat near Albert Gate, where he had shut himself up after the
sailing of Margot. The letter was post-marked Algiers, and it was a long
time since he had seen the writing on the envelope--but not so long that
he had forgotten it.
"Nevill Caird!" he said to himself as he broke the neat seal which was
characteristic of the writer. And he wondered, as he slowly, almost
reluctantly, unfolded the letter, whether Nevill Caird had been reminded
of him by reading the interview with Margot. Once, he and Caird had been
very good friends, almost inseparable during one year at Oxford. Stephen
had been twenty then, and Nevill Caird about twenty-three. That would
make him thirty-two now--and Stephen could hardly imagine what "Wings"
would have developed into at thirty-two. They had not met since
Stephen's last year at Oxford, for Caird had gone to live abroad, and if
he came back to England sometimes, he had never made any sign of wishing
to pick up the old friendship where it had dropped. But here was this
letter.
Stephen knew that Caird had inherited a good deal of money, and a house
in Paris, from an uncle or some other near relative; and a common friend
had told him that there was also an Arab palace, very ancient and very
beautiful, in or near Algiers. Several years had passed since Nevill
Caird's name had been mentioned in his hearing, and lately it had not
even echoed in his mind; but now, the handwriting and the neat seal on
this envelope brought vividly before him the image of his friend: small,
slight, boyish in face and figure, with a bright, yet dreamy smile, and
blue-grey eyes which had the look of seeing beautiful things that nobody
else could see.



     "DEAR LEGS,"
began the letter ("Legs" being the name which Stephen's skill as a