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joy of her uninterrupted thoughts. Mrs. Taylor was probably thinking all sorts of things, but what did it matter? What did anything matter now?

Tony also had plenty to think about that afternoon. All the time he was driving he was wondering about material difficulties—she was a minor—would there be much trouble about that? And about money: the immediate need could be overcome, but would there be a fuss afterwards at the bank? Tony had never dealt with large sums, even the passage money to England loomed threateningly to him. And in Sydney he would have to be identified—that would not be hard, though it was a mad story; but afterwards in London———

Ah, well, as long as he got her safely there it did not much matter.

It was when he was cleaning the car in the evening that the other side of the matter came to him. Tony had more than his share of self-confidence, but all at once the undertaking felt very large. Pamela suddenly became remote, a wonderful, fragile, unknown thing, of a terrifying innocence and youth. He did not quite know how they had come to the point of thinking it possible; but it was possible, this marriage—it was decided—and he had been so confident that he would not marry like that. “Not for years—never a cousin—not unless I love her———” he seemed to hear the echo of his words to Alison.

He did not love her: that is to say, il ne l’aimait pas d’amour; the English translation of the words makes them too precise. Could he make her (and himself) happy? That question pushed forward so that it checked the progress of the wet sponge over the enamel, and Tony stood bent and rigid for a moment, as if he were listening for the recurrence of a voice. It was uncharacteristic of him. He straightened himself and pushed the question back for