She ended the letter with a characteristic postscript, ‘Have just read this through. If the construction and phraseology of my story is anything like this it must be choice.’

Of course, being Heyer, the prose was polished, the dialogue elegant and evocative, and the plot well-executed. But, though it is a Heyer story, “Love” has a very different message for her readers. In her long career, out of twenty short stories and fifty-five novels, only “Love” (1923), Barren Corn (1930), Penhallow (1942) and Cousin Kate (1968) would deal in tragedy.

LOVE

I.

THE woman in the high-backed chair sat very still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes upon the man by the window. He was standing with his back to the room, looking out into the fog. A flame, springing to life in the open hearth, cast a shimmer over the sleeve of his peach-satin coat where it caught the light. His thin hand lay on the window-sill, listless.

The woman spoke, low and evenly.

“It is common talk now, my lord—they laugh about it at White’s—how Lord Farquhar’s wife has a lover in Mathew Hatton, and Mathew’s sister in Lord Farquhar.”

My lord turned his head; his eyes were very weary, set in a face of extraordinary beauty; young still, but marred by lines telling of late nights and dissipation. His mouth was finely curved, with pale lips and very white teeth.

“I know,” he said. There was a note of sadness in his voice, and of disillusionment, never absent. It was very sweet and level.

The woman moved her hands restlessly.

“I cannot go on, Henry. She is ruining Mathew. He is changing under mine eyes.”

My lord was silent, looking out once more into the fog.

“I am his sister, Henry. Can’t you—understand what it means to me? To see him swayed by—your wife’s—influence?”

My lord flung out his hand in an appealing gesture.

“Mary, I know all this. We have spoken of it so many, many times! To what avail? It is to talk to you that I have come, and of our lives. Of what concern are these others?”

“He is my brother,” she answered quietly.

“He is no longer a child.”

“And she—is your wife, Henry.”

He came back into the room, to the fire-place. A bitter smile hovered about his mouth.

“Ay, my wife… Why rake all this up again, Mary? God knows I tried to act rightly by her, but she made everything impossible. It is over now, and we tread different paths.”

Tears came to the woman’s eyes.

“It is not right,” she said. “You could win her again.”

“You counsel that, Mary? You?”

“I must,” she whispered. “It is—Mathew, you see. He is—all I have.”

My lord winced imperceptibly.

“I am nothing, Mary?”

“You—should be, my lord.”

“You’ll make me so?” Still more bitter became the smile.

“God help me!” she said, and covered her face with her hands.

He went to her, his silks rustling, and the jewels on his fingers glittering in the firelight.