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RF CIRCUIT DESIGN
RF CIRCUIT DESIGN
SECOND EDITION

Richard Chi Hsi Li

A JOHN WILEY & SONS, INC., PUBLICATION

Copyright © 2012 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc. All rights reserved

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey

Published simultaneously in Canada

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Li, Richard Chi-Hsi, 1938-

RF circuit design [electronic resource] / Richard Chi-Hsi Li. – Second
edition.
1 online resource. – (Information and communication technology
series ; 102)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by
publisher; resource not viewed.
ISBN 978-1-118-30990-2 (Adobe PDF) – ISBN 978-1-118-30991-9 (ePub) –
ISBN 978-1-118-30993-3 ( MobiPocket) – ISBN 978-1-118-20801-4 (cloth)
(print) 1. Radio circuits–Design and construction. 2. Electronic
circuit design. 3. Radio frequency. I. Title.
TK6560
621.384 12–dc23
2012011617

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 CONTENTS

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION xix

PART 1 DESIGN TECHNOLOGIES AND SKILLS 1

1 DIFFERENCE BETWEEN RF AND DIGITAL CIRCUIT DESIGN 3
1.1 Controversy 3
1.1.1 Impedance Matching 4
1.1.2 Key Parameter 5
1.1.3 Circuit Testing and Main Test Equipment 6
1.2 Difference of RF and Digital Block in a Communication System 6
1.2.1 Impedance 6
1.2.2 Current Drain 7
1.2.3 Location 7
1.3 Conclusions 9
1.4 Notes for High-Speed Digital Circuit Design 9
Further Reading 10
Exercises 11
Answers 11

2 REFLECTION AND SELF-INTERFERENCE 15

2.1 Introduction 15
2.2 Voltage Delivered from a Source to a Load 16
2.2.1 General Expression of Voltage Delivered from a Source to
a Load when l  λ/4 so that Td → 0 16
2.2.2 Additional Jitter or Distortion in a Digital Circuit Block 20
2.3 Power Delivered from a Source to a Load 23
2.3.1 General Expression of Power Delivered from a Source to
a Load when l  λ/4 so that Td → 0 23
2.3.2 Power Instability 26
2.3.3 Additional Power Loss 27
2.3.4 Additional Distortion 28
2.3.5 Additional Interference 31
2.4 Impedance Conjugate Matching 33
2.4.1 Maximizing Power Transport 33
2.4.2 Power Transport without Phase Shift 35
vi CONTENTS

2.4.3 Impedance Matching Network 37

2.4.4 Necessity of Impedance Matching 40
2.5 Additional Effect of Impedance Matching 42
2.5.1 Voltage Pumped up by Means of Impedance Matching 42
2.5.2 Power Measurement 49
Appendices 51
2.A.1 VSWR and Other Reflection and Transmission Coefficients 51
2.A.2 Relationships between Power (dBm ), Voltage (V), and
Power (W) 58
Reference 58
Further Reading 58
Exercises 59
Answers 59

3 IMPEDANCE MATCHING IN THE NARROW-BAND CASE 61

3.1 Introduction 61
3.2 Impedance Matching by Means of Return Loss Adjustment 63
3.2.1 Return Loss Circles on the Smith Chart 63
3.2.2 Relationship between Return Loss and Impedance
Matching 66
3.2.3 Implementation of an Impedance Matching Network 67
3.3 Impedance Matching Network Built by One Part 68
3.3.1 One Part Inserted into Impedance Matching Network in
Series 68
3.3.2 One Part Inserted into the Impedance Matching Network
in Parallel 70
3.4 Impedance Matching Network Built by Two Parts 74
3.4.1 Regions in a Smith Chart 74
3.4.2 Values of Parts 75
3.4.3 Selection of Topology 81
3.5 Impedance Matching Network Built By Three Parts 84
3.5.1 “” Type and “T” Type Topologies 84
3.5.2 Recommended Topology 84
3.6 Impedance Matching When ZS Or ZL Is Not 50  85
3.7 Parts In An Impedance Matching Network 93
Appendices 94
3.A.1 Fundamentals of the Smith Chart 94
3.A.2 Formula for Two-Part Impedance Matching Network 99
3.A.3 Topology Limitations of the Two-Part Impedance
Matching Network 110
3.A.4 Topology Limitation of Three Parts Impedance Matching
Network 114
3.A.5 Conversion between  and T Type Matching Network 122
3.A.6 Possible  and T Impedance Matching Networks 124
Reference 124
Further Reading 124
CONTENTS vii

Exercises 125
Answers 127

4 IMPEDANCE MATCHING IN THE WIDEBAND CASE 131

4.1 Appearance of Narrow and Wideband Return Loss on a Smith Chart 131
4.2 Impedance Variation Due to the Insertion of One Part Per Arm or
Per Branch 136
4.2.1 An Inductor Inserted into Impedance Matching Network
in Series 137
4.2.2 A Capacitor Inserted into Impedance Matching Network
in Series 139
4.2.3 An Inductor Inserted into Impedance Matching Network
in Parallel 141
4.2.4 A Capacitor Inserted into Impedance Matching Network
in Parallel 143
4.3 Impedance Variation Due to the Insertion of Two Parts Per Arm or
Per Branch 145
4.3.1 Two Parts Connected in Series to Form One Arm 146
4.3.2 Two Parts Are Connected in Parallel to Form One Branch 148
4.4 Partial Impedance Matching for an IQ (in Phase Quadrature)
Modulator in a UWB (Ultra Wide Band) System 151
4.4.1 Gilbert Cell 151
4.4.2 Impedances of the Gilbert Cell 153
4.4.3 Impedance Matching for LO, RF, and IF Ports Ignoring
the Bandwidth 155
4.4.4 Wide Bandwidth Required in a UWB (Ultra Wide Band)
System 159
4.4.5 Basic Idea to Expand the Bandwidth 160
4.4.6 Example 1: Impedance Matching in IQ Modulator Design
for Group 1 in a UWB System 161
4.4.7 Example 2: Impedance Matching in IQ Modulator Design
for Group 3 + Group 6 in a UWB System 172
4.5 Discussion of Passive Wideband Impedance Matching Network 174
4.5.1 Impedance Matching for the Gate of a MOSFET Device 175
4.5.2 Impedance Matching for the Drain of a MOSFET Device 177
Further Reading 179
Exercises 179
Answers 180

5 IMPEDANCE AND GAIN OF A RAW DEVICE 181

5.1 Introduction 181
5.2 Miller Effect 183
5.3 Small-Signal Model of a Bipolar Transistor 187
5.4 Bipolar Transistor with CE (Common Emitter) Configuration 190
5.4.1 Open-Circuit Voltage Gain Av,CE of a CE Device 190
viii CONTENTS

5.4.2 Short-Circuit Current Gain βCE and Frequency Response

of a CE Device 194
5.4.3 Primary Input and Output Impedance of a CE (common
emitter) device 196
5.4.4 Miller’s Effect in a Bipolar Transistor with CE
Configuration 197
5.4.5 Emitter Degeneration 200
5.5 Bipolar Transistor with CB (Common Base) Configuration 204
5.5.1 Open-Circuit Voltage Gain Av,CB of a CB Device 204
5.5.2 Short-Circuit Current Gain βCG and Frequency Response
of a CB Device 206
5.5.3 Input and Output Impedance of a CB Device 208
5.6 Bipolar Transistor with CC (Common Collector) Configuration 214
5.6.1 Open-Circuit Voltage Gain Av,CC of a CC Device 214
5.6.2 Short-Circuit Current Gain βCC and Frequency Response
of the Bipolar Transistor with CC Configuration 217
5.6.3 Input and Output Impedance of a CC Device 218
5.7 Small-Signal Model of a MOSFET 221
5.8 Similarity Between a Bipolar Transistor and a MOSFET 225
5.8.1 Simplified Model of CS Device 225
5.8.2 Simplified Model of CG Device 228
5.8.3 Simplified Model of CD Device 230
5.9 MOSFET with CS (Common Source) Configuration 235
5.9.1 Open-Circuit Voltage Gain Av,CS of a CS Device 235
5.9.2 Short-Circuit Current Gain βCS and Frequency Response
of a CS Device 237
5.9.3 Input and Output Impedance of a CS Device 239
5.9.4 Source Degeneration 240
5.10 MOSFET with CG (Common Gate) Configuration 244
5.10.1 Open-Circuit Voltage Gain of a CG Device 244
5.10.2 Short-Circuit Current Gain and Frequency Response of a
CG Device 245
5.10.3 Input and Output Impedance of a CG Device 247
5.11 MOSFET with CD (Common Drain) Configuration 249
5.11.1 Open-Circuit Voltage Gain Av,CD of a CD Device 250
5.11.2 Short-Circuit Current Gain βCD and Frequency Response
of a CD Device 250
5.11.3 Input and Output Impedance of a CD Device 251
5.12 Comparison of Transistor Configuration of Single-stage Amplifiers
with Different Configurations 252
Further Reading 256
Exercises 256
Answers 256

6 IMPEDANCE MEASUREMENT 259

6.1 Introduction 259
6.2 Scalar and Vector Voltage Measurement 260
CONTENTS ix

6.2.1 Voltage Measurement by Oscilloscope 260

6.2.2 Voltage Measurement by Vector Voltmeter 262
6.3 Direct Impedance Measurement by a Network Analyzer 263
6.3.1 Direction of Impedance Measurement 263
6.3.2 Advantage of Measuring S Parameters 265
6.3.3 Theoretical Background of Impedance Measurement by
S Parameters 266
6.3.4 S Parameter Measurement by Vector Voltmeter 268
6.3.5 Calibration of the Network Analyzer 270
6.4 Alternative Impedance Measurement by Network Analyzer 272
6.4.1 Accuracy of the Smith Chart 272
6.4.2 Low- and High-Impedance Measurement 275
6.5 Impedance Measurement Using a Circulator 276
Appendices 277
6.A.1 Relationship Between the Impedance in Series and in
Parallel 277
Further Reading 278
Exercises 278
Answers 279

7 GROUNDING 281
7.1 Implication of Grounding 281
7.2 Possible Grounding Problems Hidden in a Schematic 283
7.3 Imperfect or Inappropriate Grounding Examples 284
7.3.1 Inappropriate Selection of Bypass Capacitor 284
7.3.2 Imperfect Grounding 286
7.3.3 Improper Connection 288
7.4 ‘Zero’ Capacitor 290
7.4.1 What is a Zero Capacitor 290
7.4.2 Selection of a Zero Capacitor 290
7.4.3 Bandwidth of a Zero Capacitor 293
7.4.4 Combined Effect of Multi-Zero Capacitors 295
7.4.5 Chip Inductor is a Good Assistant 296
7.4.6 Zero Capacitor in RFIC Design 298
7.5 Quarter Wavelength of Microstrip Line 300
7.5.1 A Runner is a Part in RF Circuitry 300
7.5.2 Why Quarter Wavelength is so Important 304
7.5.3 Magic Open-Circuited Quarter Wavelength of Microstrip
Line 305
7.5.4 Testing for Width of Microstrip Line with Specific
Characteristic Impedance 307
7.5.5 Testing for Quarter Wavelength 307
Appendices 309
7.A.1 Characterizing of Chip Capacitor and Chip Inductor by
Means of S21 Testing 309
7.A.2 Characterizing of Chip Resistor by Means of S11 of S22
Testing 319
x CONTENTS

Reference 321
Further Reading 322
Exercises 322
Answers 323

8 EQUIPOTENTIALITY AND CURRENT COUPLING ON THE GROUND

SURFACE 325
8.1 Equipotentiality on the Ground Surface 325
8.1.1 Equipotentiality on the Grounded Surface of an RF Cable 325
8.1.2 Equipotentiality on the Grounded Surface of a PCB 326
8.1.3 Possible Problems of a Large Test PCB 327
8.1.4 Coercing Grounding 328
8.1.5 Testing for Equipotentiality 333
8.2 Forward and Return Current Coupling 335
8.2.1 Indifferent Assumption and Great Ignore 335
8.2.2 Reduction of Current Coupling on a PCB 336
8.2.3 Reduction of Current Coupling in an IC Die 338
8.2.4 Reduction of Current Coupling between Multiple RF
Blocks 340
8.2.5 A Plausible System Assembly 341
8.3 PCB or IC Chip with Multimetallic Layers 344
Further Reading 346
Exercises 346
Answers 347

9 LAYOUT 349
9.1 Difference in Layout between an Individual Block and a System 349
9.2 Primary Considerations of a PCB 350
9.2.1 Types of PCBs 350
9.2.2 Main Electromagnetic Parameters 351
9.2.3 Size 351
9.2.4 Number of Metallic Layers 352
9.3 Layout of a PCB for Testing 352
9.4 VIA Modeling 355
9.4.1 Single Via 355
9.4.2 Multivias 359
9.5 Runner 360
9.5.1 When a Runner is Connected with the Load in Series 360
9.5.2 When a Runner is Connected to the Load in Parallel 363
9.5.3 Style of Runner 363
9.6 Parts 369
9.6.1 Device 369
9.6.2 Inductor 369
9.6.3 Resistor 370
9.6.4 Capacitor 370
9.7 Free Space 371
CONTENTS xi

References 373
Further Reading 373
Exercises 373
Answers 374

10 MANUFACTURABILITY OF PRODUCT DESIGN 377

10.1 Introduction 377
10.2 Implication of 6σ Design 379
10.2.1 6σ and Yield Rate 379
10.2.2 6σ Design for a Circuit Block 382
10.2.3 6σ Design for a Circuit System 383
10.3 Approaching 6σ Design 383
10.3.1 By Changing of Parts’ σ Value 383
10.3.2 By Replacing Single Part with Multiple Parts 385
10.4 Monte Carlo Analysis 386
10.4.1 A Band-Pass Filter 386
10.4.2 Simulation with Monte Carlo Analysis 387
10.4.3 Sensitivity of Parts on the Parameter of Performance 392
Appendices 392
10.A.1 Fundamentals of Random Process 392
10.A.2 Index Cp and Cpk Applied in 6σ Design 398
10.A.3 Table of the Normal Distribution 398
Further Reading 398
Exercises 399
Answers 399

11 RFIC (RADIO FREQUENCY INTEGRATED CIRCUIT) 401

11.1 Interference and Isolation 401
11.1.1 Existence of Interference in Circuitry 401
11.1.2 Definition and Measurement of Isolation 402
11.1.3 Main Path of Interference in a RF Module 403
11.1.4 Main Path of Interference in an IC Die 403
11.2 Shielding for an RF Module by a Metallic Shielding Box 403
11.3 Strong Desirability to Develop RFIC 405
11.4 Interference going along IC Substrate Path 406
11.4.1 Experiment 406
11.4.2 Trench 408
11.4.3 Guard Ring 409
11.5 Solution for Interference Coming from Sky 411
11.6 Common Grounding Rules for RF Module and RFIC Design 412
11.6.1 Grounding of Circuit Branches or Blocks in Parallel 412
11.6.2 DC Power Supply to Circuit Branches or Blocks in Parallel 413
11.7 Bottlenecks in RFIC Design 414
11.7.1 Low-Q Inductor and Possible Solution 414
11.7.2 “Zero” Capacitor 419
xii CONTENTS

11.7.3 Bonding Wire 419

11.7.4 Via 419
11.8 Calculating of Quarter Wavelength 420
Reference 423
Further Reading 423
Exercises 424
Answers 425

PART 2 RF SYSTEM 427

12 MAIN PARAMETERS AND SYSTEM ANALYSIS IN RF CIRCUIT

DESIGN 429
12.1 Introduction 429
12.2 Power Gain 431
12.2.1 Basic Concept of Reflection Power Gain 431
12.2.2 Transducer Power Gain 434
12.2.3 Power Gain in a Unilateral Case 437
12.2.4 Power Gain in a Unilateral and Impedance-Matched Case 438
12.2.5 Power Gain and Voltage Gain 439
12.2.6 Cascaded Equations of Power Gain 439
12.3 Noise 441
12.3.1 Significance of Noise Figure 441
12.3.2 Noise Figure in a Noisy Two-Port RF Block 443
12.3.3 Notes on Noise Figure Testing 444
12.3.4 An Experimental Method to Obtain Noise Parameters 445
12.3.5 Cascaded Equations of Noise Figure 446
12.3.6 Sensitivity of a Receiver 448
12.4 Nonlinearity 453
12.4.1 Nonlinearity of a Device 453
12.4.2 IP (Intercept Point) and IMR (Intermodulation Rejection) 461
12.4.3 Cascaded Equations of Intercept Point 472
12.4.4 Nonlinearity and Distortion 479
12.5 Other Parameters 480
12.5.1 Power Supply Voltage and Current Drain 480
12.5.2 Part Count 482
12.6 Example of RF System Analysis 482
Appendices 485
12.A.1 Conversion between Watts, Volts, and dBm in a System
with 50  Input and Output Impedance 485
12.A.2 Relationship between voltage reflection coefficient, , and
Transmission coefficients when the load Ro is equal to the
standard characteristic resistance, 50 ) 485
12.A.3 Definition of Powers in a Two-Port Block by Signal Flow
Graph 488
12.A.4 Main Noise Sources 489
CONTENTS xiii

References 491
Further Reading 491
Exercises 493
Answers 494

13 SPECIALITY OF ‘‘ZERO IF’’ SYSTEM 501

13.1 Why Differential Pair? 501
13.1.1 Superficial Difference between Single-Ended and
Differential Pair 501
13.1.2 Nonlinearity in Single-Ended Stage 503
13.1.3 Nonlinearity in a Differential Pair 505
13.1.4 Importance of Differential Configuration in a Direct
Conversion or Zero IF Communication System 507
13.1.5 Why Direct Conversion or Zero IF? 508
13.2 Can DC Offset be Blocked out by a Capacitor? 508
13.3 Chopping Mixer 511
13.4 DC Offset Cancellation by Calibration 516
13.5 Remark on DC Offset Cancellation 517
Further Reading 517
Exercises 518
Answers 519

14 DIFFERENTIAL PAIRS 521

14.1 Fundamentals of Differential Pairs 521
14.1.1 Topology and Definition of a Differential Pair 521
14.1.2 Transfer Characteristic of a Bipolar Differential Pair 524
14.1.3 Small Signal Approximation of a Bipolar Differential Pair 527
14.1.4 Transfer Characteristic of a MOSFET Differential Pair 528
14.1.5 Small Signal Approximation of a MOSFET Differential
Pair 530
14.1.6 What Happens If Input Signal Is Imperfect Differential 531
14.2 CMRR (Common Mode Rejection Ratio) 533
14.2.1 Expression of CMRR 533
14.2.2 CMRR in a Single-Ended Stage 539
14.2.3 CMRR in a Pseudo-Differential Pair 539
14.2.4 Enhancement of CMRR 541
Reference 542
Further Reading 542
Exercises 542
Answers 543

15 RF BALUN 547
15.1 Introduction 547
15.2 Transformer Balun 549
xiv CONTENTS

15.2.1 Transformer Balun in RF Circuit Design with Discrete Parts 550

15.2.2 Transformer Balun in RFIC Design 550
15.2.3 An Ideal Transformer Balun for Simulation 551
15.2.4 Equivalence of Parts between Single-Ended and
Differential Pair in Respect to an Ideal Transformer Balun 555
15.2.5 Impedance Matching for Differential Pair by means of
Transformer Balun 568
15.3 LC Balun 571
15.3.1 Simplicity of LC Balun Design 572
15.3.2 Performance of a Simple LC Balun 572
15.3.3 A Practical LC Balun 576
15.4 Microstrip Line Balun 580
15.4.1 Ring Balun 580
15.4.2 Split Ring Balun 582
15.5 Mixing Type of Balun 583
15.5.1 Balun Built by Microstrip Line and Chip Capacitor 583
15.5.2 Balun Built by Chip Inductors and Chip Capacitors 585
Appendices 586
15.A.1 Transformer Balun Built by Two Stacked Transformers 586
15.A.2 Analysis of a Simple LC Balun 588
15.A.3 Example of Calculating of L and C Values for a Simple
LC Balun 592
15.A.4 Equivalence of Parts between Single-Ended and
Differential Pair with Respect to a Simple LC Balun 592
15.A.5 Some Useful Couplers 602
15.A.6 Cable Balun 603
Reference 604
Further Reading 604
Exercises 605
Answers 606

16 SOC (SYSTEM-ON-A-CHIP) AND NEXT 611

16.1 SOC 611
16.1.1 Basic Concept 611
16.1.2 Remove Bottlenecks in Approach to RFIC 612
16.1.3 Study Isolation between RFIC, Digital IC, and Analog IC 612
16.2 What is Next 612
Appendices 615
16.A.1 Packaging 615
References 621
Further Reading 622
Exercises 622
Answers 623
CONTENTS xv

PART 3 INDIVIDUAL RF BLOCKS 625

17 LNA (LOW-NOISE AMPLIFIER) 627
17.1 Introduction 627
17.2 Single-Ended Single Device LNA 628
17.2.1 Size of Device 629
17.2.2 Raw Device Setup and Testing 632
17.2.3 Challenge for a Good LNA Design 639
17.2.4 Input and Output Impedance Matching 646
17.2.5 Gain Circles and Noise Figure Circles 648
17.2.6 Stability 649
17.2.7 Nonlinearity 653
17.2.8 Design Procedures 655
17.2.9 Other Examples 656
17.3 Single-Ended Cascode LNA 662
17.3.1 Bipolar CE–CB Cascode Voltage Amplifier 662
17.3.2 MOSFET CS–CG Cascode Voltage Amplifier 666
17.3.3 Why Cascode? 669
17.3.4 Example 671
17.4 LNA with AGC (Automatic Gain Control) 684
17.4.1 AGC Operation 684
17.4.2 Traditional LNA with AGC 686
17.4.3 Increase in AGC Dynamic Range 688
17.4.4 Example 689
References 690
Further Reading 690
Exercises 691
Answers 692

18 MIXER 695
18.1 Introduction 695
18.2 Passive Mixer 698
18.2.1 Simplest Passive Mixer 698
18.2.2 Double-Balanced Quad-Diode Mixer 699
18.2.3 Double-Balanced Resistive Mixer 702
18.3 Active Mixer 706
18.3.1 Single-End Single Device Active Mixer 706
18.3.2 Gilbert Cell 708
18.3.3 Active Mixer with Bipolar Gilbert Cell 712
18.3.4 Active Mixer with MOSFET Gilbert Cell 715
18.4 Design Schemes 717
18.4.1 Impedance Measuring and Matching 717
18.4.2 Current Bleeding 718
18.4.3 Multi-tanh Technique 719
xvi CONTENTS

18.4.4 Input Types 722

Appendices 723
18.A.1 Trigonometric and Hyperbolic Functions 723
18.A.2 Implementation of tanh−1 Block 724
References 726
Further Reading 726
Exercises 726
Answers 727

19 TUNABLE FILTER 731

19.1 Tunable Filter in A Communication System 731
19.1.1 Expected Constant Bandwidth of a Tunable Filter 732
19.1.2 Variation of Bandwidth 732
19.2 Coupling between two Tank Circuits 733
19.2.1 Inappropriate Coupling 735
19.2.2 Reasonable Coupling 738
19.3 Circuit Description 738
19.4 Effect of Second Coupling 739
19.5 Performance 743
Further Reading 746
Exercises 747
Answers 747

20 VCO (VOLTAGE-CONTROLLED OSCILLATOR) 749

20.1 “Three-Point” Types of Oscillator 749
20.1.1 Hartley Oscillator 751
20.1.2 Colpitts Oscillator 753
20.1.3 Clapp Oscillator 753
20.2 Other Single-Ended Oscillators 755
20.2.1 Phase-Shift Oscillator 755
20.2.2 TITO (Tuned Input and Tuned Output) Oscillator 757
20.2.3 Resonant Oscillator 757
20.2.4 Crystal Oscillator 758
20.3 VCO and PLL (Phase Lock Loop) 759
20.3.1 Implication of VCO 759
20.3.2 Transfer Function of PLL 760
20.3.3 White Noise from the Input of the PLL 763
20.3.4 Phase Noise from a VCO 764
20.4 Design Example of a Single-Ended VCO 769
20.4.1 Single-Ended VCO with Clapp Configuration 769
20.4.2 Varactor 770
20.4.3 Printed Inductor 770
20.4.4 Simulation 773
20.4.5 Load-Pulling Test and VCO Buffer 776
20.5 Differential VCO and Quad-Phases VCO 778
CONTENTS xvii

Reference 783
Further Reading 783
Exercises 784
Answers 784

21 PA (POWER AMPLIFIER) 789

21.1 Classification of PA 789
21.1.1 Class A Power Amplifier 790
21.1.2 Class B Power Amplifier 790
21.1.3 Class C Power Amplifier 791
21.1.4 Class D Power Amplifier 791
21.1.5 Class E Power Amplifier 792
21.1.6 Third-Harmonic-Peaking Class F Power Amplifier 793
21.1.7 Class S Power Amplifier 794
21.2 Single-Ended PA 794
21.2.1 Tuning on the Bench 795
21.2.2 Simulation 796
21.3 Single-Ended PA IC Design 798
21.4 Push–Pull PA Design 799
21.4.1 Main Specification 799
21.4.2 Block Diagram 799
21.4.3 Impedance Matching 800
21.4.4 Reducing the Block Size 804
21.4.5 Double Microstrip Line Balun 808
21.4.6 Toroidal RF Transformer Balun 817
21.5 PA with Temperature Compensation 822
21.6 PA with Output Power Control 823
21.7 Linear PA 824
References 828
Further Reading 828
Exercises 829
Answers 829

INDEX 833
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

I wrote the book titled RF Circuit Design in the United States, which was published by
John Wiley & Sons, Inc. in 2009. It contains three parts:

1. Introduction to individual RF circuit block design. This part resembles exist-

ing books on RF circuit design. The topics concern main RF blocks such as
the LNA (low-noise amplifier), Mixer, PA (power amplifier), VCO (voltage-
controlled oscillator), PLL (phase lock loop), and so on. Most published RF
books or articles focus largely on the description of operating principles of the
circuitry. Distinctively, this part of the book emphasizes the actual engineering
design procedures and schemes.
This part could be categorized as “longitudinal.”
2. Summary of skills and technologies in RF circuit design. Instead of describing
circuit operating principles, the second part describes general design skills and
technologies, such as impedance matching, RF grounding, layout, jeopardy in
RFIC and SOC (system-on-a-chip) design, 6σ design, and so on. This part is
derived from my own design experience of over 20 years, highlighting both
successes and failures. Therefore, it is unique among the published books on RF
circuit design and represents the special feature of this book.
This part could be categorized as “transversal.”
3. Basic parameters of an RF system and the fundamentals of RF system design.
This part considers a “must” theoretical background to an RF circuit designer,
who should fully understand the basic RF parameters so that he can design the
RF circuitry to serve the entire system.

Till date, more than 60 lectures on the subjects of this book have been held in
mainland China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and Singapore.
I received many precious comments and valuable inputs from readers after the first
edition was published. This encouraged me and promoted the desire to work on a second
edition. The following are the main changes in this book from the first edition:

1. Emphasis of the skills and technologies in RF circuit design. In order to emphasize

the importance of the skills and technologies in the RF circuit design, the second
part in the first edition that covers skills and technologies in RF circuit design is
shifted as the first part in the second edition. To an RF circuit designer, no matter
whether he or she would like to be a good engineer, a qualified professor, or an
authoritative academic, the foremost objective is to master the design skills and
technologies in the RF circuit design.
2. It is expected that this book can be adapted as a textbook for university courses.
In order to help students further familiarize themselves with the topics of this
xx PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

book, exercises are included at the end of each chapter. This may be convenient
to those professors who would like to select this book as a textbook in their
electrical engineering courses. In other words, it is expected that this book would
be not only a science–technology–engineering reference but also a candidate for
a textbook.
3. Expansion of topics. In addition to the rearranging of chapters or paragraphs, some
chapters have been split up and new chapters have been inserted, increasing the
number of chapters from 18 in the first edition to 21 in the second edition.

Finally, I express my deep appreciation to my lovely sons, Bruno Sie Li and Bruce
Xin Li, who checked and corrected my English writing for this book. Also, it should be
noted that unconventional descriptions, prejudices, or mistakes may inevitably appear in
this book since most of the raw material comes from my own engineering designs and the-
oretical derivations. Comments or corrections from readers would be highly appreciated.
My email address is [email protected].

Fort Worth, TX, USA, 2011 Richard Chi Hsi Li

 PART 1
DESIGN TECHNOLOGIES
AND SKILLS
 1
DIFFERENCE BETWEEN RF AND DIGITAL
CIRCUIT DESIGN

1.1 CONTROVERSY

For many years, there has been continued controversy between digital and RF circuit
designers, some of which are given below:

• RF circuit designers emphasize impedance matching, whereas digital circuit

designers are indifferent to it.
• RF circuit designers are concerned with frequency response, whereas digital circuit
designers are interested in the waveform, or “eye’s diagram.” In other words, RF
circuit designers prefer to work in the frequency domain, whereas digital circuit
designers like to work in the time domain.
• As a consequence of the above, in a discussion of the budget for equipment, RF
circuit designers like to purchase good network analyzers, whereas digital circuit
designers prefer to buy the best oscilloscopes.
• RF circuit designers use the unit of dBW , whereas digital circuit designers insist
on using dBV .
• Not only are the design methodologies different, so are their respective jargons.
Digital circuit designers talk about AC bypass capacitors or DC blocking capaci-
tors, but RF circuit designers rename those as “zero” capacitors.

It almost seems as if they were two different kinds of aliens from different plan-
ets. Even in some conferences or publications, these two kinds of “aliens” argue with

RF Circuit Design, Second Edition. Richard Chi Hsi Li.

© 2012 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2012 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
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"It was not my fault, Mario. It was you who kept aloof."
"Not till I saw repulsion—not till I saw aversion."
"No, no—never, never, never! I have never forgotten your goodness
—never forgotten all I owe you."
They had been sitting side by side on the spacious Louis Quatorze
sofa, his hand upon her shoulder; but at her last words he started to
his feet with a cry of pain.
"Yes, that is it—you recognise an obligation. I have given you a fine
house, fine clothes, fine friends—and you think you ought to repay
me for them by pretending to love me. Vera, that is all over. There
must be no more pretending. I can bear a good deal, but I could not
bear that. I told you something of my past life before we were
married; but I doubt if I told you all its bitterness—all the blind
egotism of my marriage, the cruel awakening from a dream of
mutual love—to discover that my wife had married me because I
could give her the things she wanted, and that love was out of the
question. I compared myself with other men, and saw the
difference; and as I had missed the love of a mother, so I had to do
without the love of a wife. I was not made to win a woman's love—
no, not even a mother's. This was why my affection for my daughter
was something more than the common love of fathers. She was the
first who loved me—and she will be the last."
"Mario, you are too cruel! Have I not loved you?"
"Yes—perhaps for a little while. You gave me a year of infinite
happiness—our honeymoon year. That ought to be enough. I have
no right to ask for more—but let there be no talk of gratitude—if I
cannot have love I will have nothing."
"You have been so cold, so silent and reserved, so changed. I
thought you were tired of me."
"Tired of you? Poor child! How should you know the measureless
love in the heart of a man of my life-history? When I took you in my
arms in the evening sunshine, I gave you all that was best and
strongest in my nature—boundless love and boundless trust. All my
life-history went for nothing in that hour. I did not ask myself if I was
the kind of man to win the heart of a girl. I did not think of my five-
and-forty years or my forbidding face. I gave myself up to that
delicious dream. I had found the girl who could love me, the divine
girl, youth and innocence incarnate. Think what it was after a year
of happiness to be awakened by a look, and to know that I had
again been fooled, and that if in the first surprise of my passionate
love you had almost loved me, that love was dead."
"No, no," she sobbed; and then she hid her streaming eyes upon his
breast, and wound her arms about his neck, clinging to the husband
in whom she found her only shelter.
Was it some curious instinct of the flesh, or some power of
telepathy, that told him not to take these tears and wild embrace for
tokens of a wife's love?
"My dearest girl," he said with infinite gentleness, as he loosened the
clinging arms and lifted the hidden face, "if this distress means
sorrow for having unwittingly deceived me, for having taken a man's
heart and not been able to give him love for love, there need be no
more tears. The fault was mine, the mistake was mine. You must not
suffer for it. To me you will always be unspeakably sweet and dear—
whether I think of you as a wife, or as the girl my daughter loved—
and whom I learned to love in those sad days when the shadow of
death went with us in the spring sunshine. Yes, Vera, you will always
be dear—my dearest on this earth. But there must be no pretending,
nothing false. Think of me as your friend and protector, the one
friend whom you can always trust, your rock of defence against all
the dangers and delusions of a wicked world. Trust me, dearest, and
never keep a secret from me. Be true to yourself, keep your honour
stainless, your purity of mind unclouded by evil associations. Let no
breath of calumny soil your name. Rise superior to the ruck of your
friends, and have no dealings with the lost women whose guilt
Society chooses to ignore. I ask no more than this, my beloved girl,
in return for measureless love and implicit faith."
He was holding both her hands, looking at her with searching eyes;
those clear grey eyes under a brow of power.
"Can you promise as much as this, Vera?
"Yes."
"With heart and mind?"
"With heart and mind."
"And you will never take the liberty I give you for a letter of license?"
"No, no, no. But I don't ask for liberty. I want to belong to you, to be
sheltered by you."
"You shall have the shelter, if you need it; but be true to yourself,
and you will need no defender. A woman's safest armour is her own
purity. And again, my love," with a return of the slightly ironical
smile, "never was a woman better guarded than you are while you
are fringed round by Disbrowes, protected at every point by your
mother's clan, people at once well born and well bred, with no taint
of Bohemianism, unless indeed it may lurk in your poco curante
cousin, the young painter who made such a lamentable failure of
your portrait."
She felt as if every vestige of colour was fading out of her face, and
that even her lips must be deadly white. They were so parched that
when she tried to shape some trivial reply the power of speech
seemed gone. She felt the dry lips moving; but no sound came.
This was the end of her appeal to the husband whose love might
have saved her. Their relations were changed from that hour. He was
not again the lover-husband of their honeymoon years; but he was
no longer cold and reserved, he no longer held her at a distance. He
was kind and sympathetic.
He interested himself in her occupations and amusements, the books
she read and the people she saw. He was with her at the opera,
where Claude Rutherford sometimes came to them and sat through
an act or two in the darkness at the back of the box. He was
infinitely kind and tender; but it was the tenderness of a father, or a
benevolent uncle, rather than of a husband. He held rigidly to that
which he had told her. There was to be no make-believe in their
relations.
If she was not happy, she was at peace for some time after her
husband's home-coming—a period in which they were more together
than they had ever been since those first years of their married life.
She tried to be happy, tried to forget the time in which Claude
Rutherford had been her daily companion, the time when she
planned no pleasure that he was not to share, and had no opinions
about people or places, or books or art, that she did not take from
him: loving the things he loved, hating the things he hated; as if
they had been two bodies moved by one mind. She tried not to feel
an aching void for want of him; she tried not to think him cruel for
coming to her house so seldom, and tried to be sorry that they met
so often in the houses of her friends.
The time came when the awakened conscience was lulled to sleep,
and when her husband's society began to jar upon her strained
nerves. She had invoked him as a defence against the enemy; and
now she longed for the enemy, and had ceased to be grateful to the
defender.
The rampart of defence was soon to fall. A financial crisis was
threatened, and Signor Provana was wanted at his office in New
York. He told his wife that he might be able to come back to London
in a fortnight, allowing ten days for the double passage, and four for
his business; but if things were troublesome in America he might be
a good deal longer.
"I shall try to be home in time to take you to Marienbad," he told
her. "But if I am not here, Lady Okehampton will take you, and you
can get Lady Susan to go with you and keep you in good spirits. I
had a talk with your aunt last night, and she promised to take you
under her wing."
"I don't want to be under anybody's wing; and Aunt Mildred will bore
me to death if I see much of her at Marienbad."
"Oh, you will have your favourite Susie for amusement, and your
aunt to see that she doesn't lead you into mischief. Lady Susan is a
shade too adventurous for my taste."
This idea of Marienbad was a new thing. A certain nervous irritability
had been growing upon Vera of late, and her husband had been
puzzled and uneasy, and had called in a nerve specialist
recommended by Lady Okehampton, one of those new lights whom
everybody believe in for a few seasons. After a quiet talk with Vera,
that grave authority had suggested a rest cure, the living death of
six weeks in a nursing home; and on this being vehemently
protested against by the patient, had offered Marienbad as an
alternative.
Provana had been startled by this sudden change in his wife's
temper, from extreme gentleness and an evident desire to please
him, to a kind of febrile impatience and irritability; and remembering
her curious agitation on the evening of his home-coming, her pallid
cheeks and passionate tears, he had an uneasy feeling that these
strange moods had a common source, and that there was something
mysterious and unhappy that it was his business to discover before
he left her.
He came to her room early on the day of his departure, so early that
she had only just left her bedroom, and was still wearing the loose
white muslin gown in which she had breakfasted.
She was sitting on her low sofa in a listless attitude, looking at the
faces on the wall—Browning, Shelley, Byron—the faces of the
inspired dead who were more alive than the uninspired living; but at
her husband's entrance she started to her feet and went to meet
him.
"You are not going yet," she exclaimed. "I thought the boat-train did
not leave till the afternoon."
"It does not; but I must give the interval to business. I have come to
bid you good-bye."
"I am very sorry you are obliged to go," she said.
"For God's sake do not lie to me. For pity's sake let there be no
pretending."
He took both her hands and drew her to him, looking at her with an
imploring earnestness.
"I have trusted you as men seldom trust their wives," he said. "I
thought I had done you a great wrong when I took you in the first
bloom of your young beauty and made you my own; cutting you off
for ever from the love of a young lover, and all the passion and
romance of youth. Considering this, I tried to make amends by
giving you perfect freedom, freedom to live your own life among
your own friends, freedom for everything that could make a woman
happy, except that romantic love which you renounced when you
accepted me as your husband. I believed in you, Vera, I believed in
your truth and purity as I believe in God. I could never have
reconciled myself to the life we have led in this house if it were not
for my invincible faith in your truth. But within this month that faith
has been shaken. Your eyes have lost the old look—the lovely look
through which truth shone like a light. There is something unhappy,
something mysterious. There is a secret—and I must know that
secret before I leave you."
Her face changed to a look of stone as he watched her.
It was no time for tears. It was time for a superhuman effort at
repression, to hold every feeling in check, to make her nerves iron.
There was defiance in her tone when she spoke, after a silence that
seemed long.
"There is no secret."
"Then why are you unhappy?"
"I am not unhappy. I have a fit of low spirits now and then, a feeling
of physical depression, for which there is no reason; or perhaps my
idle, useless life, and the luxury in which I live, may be the reason."
"It is something more than low spirits. You are nervous and irritable
and you have a frightened look sometimes, a look that frightens me.
Oh, Vera, for God's sake be frank with me. Trust me half as much as
I have trusted you. Trust me as a daughter might trust her father,
knowing his measureless love, and knowing that with that love there
would be measureless pity. Trust me, my beloved girl, throw your
burden upon me, and you shall find the strength of a man's love,
and the self-abnegation that goes with it."
"I have no secret, no mystery; I mean to be worthy of your trust. I
mean to be true to myself. If you doubt me let me go to America
with you. Keep me with you."
His face lighted as she spoke, and then he looked thoughtfully at the
fragile form, the delicate features, the ethereal beauty that seemed
to have so frail a hold on life.
"No, you are not the stuff for sea voyages, and the storm and stress
of New York. If we went there together I should have to leave you
too much alone among strangers. I shall have an anxious time
there; but it shall not be a long time. If possible, I shall be here to
take you to Marienbad, and in the meantime you must live quietly,
and do what your doctor tells you. He is to see you next week,
remember."
He held her to his heart, with stronger feeling than he had shown for
a long time, and gave her his good-bye kiss. She flung herself on her
knees as the door closed behind him.
"God help me to be true to him in heart and mind."
That was the prayer she breathed mutely, while her tears fell thick
and fast upon her clasped hands.
He was gone, the unloved husband, and she had to face the peril of
the undeclared lover. She felt helpless and forsaken, and she sat for
a long time in listless misery; and then, looking up at the pictures on
the wall, she tried to realise that silent companionship, the souls of
the illustrious dead—tried to believe that she was not alone in her
dejection, that in the silence of her lonely room there was the
sympathy and understanding of souls over whom death has no more
dominion, and whose pity was more profound than any earth-bound
creature could give her.
She thought of Francis Symeon, and of those meetings of which he
had told her. Nothing had come of her interview with him. Claude
Rutherford's light laughter had blown away her belief in the high-
priest of the spiritual world; and she had thought no more of the
creed that had appealed so strongly to her imagination.
Now, when life seemed a barren waste, her thoughts turned to the
philosophic visionary who had so gravely expounded his dream.
Everything in her material world harassed and distressed her, and
she turned to the spiritual life to escape from reality.
She wrote urgently to Mr. Symeon, telling him that she was unhappy,
and asking to be admitted to the society of which he had told her.
She had not to wait long for an answer. Symeon called upon her that
afternoon, and was with her for more than an hour, full of kindness
and sympathy; sympathy that scared her, for it seemed as if those
strange eyes must be reading the depths of her inner consciousness,
and all the disgust of life and vague longing that were interwoven
with her thoughts of Claude Rutherford.
It was to escape those thoughts—to dissever herself from that
haunting image, that she pleaded for admission to the shadow
world.
"Bring me in communion with the great minds that are above earthly
passions," would be her prayer, could she have spoken freely; but
she sat in a thoughtful silence, soothed by the spiritualist's
exposition of that dream-world, which was to him more real than the
solid earth upon which he had to live—a reluctant participator in the
life of the vulgar herd.
"The mass of mankind, who have no joys that are not sensual, and
who live only in the present moment, have nothing but ridicule and
disbelief for the faith that makes even this sordid material world
beautiful for us, who see in earthly things the image of things
supernal," he said, with that accent of sincerity, that intense
conviction, which had made scoffers cease from scoffing under the
influence of his personality, however they might ridicule him in his
absence.
Everyone had to admit that, though the creed might be absurd, the
man was wonderful.
There was to be a meeting of "Us" at his chambers on the following
afternoon, and Symeon begged Vera to come.
"You may find only thought and silence," he said, "a company of
friends absorbed in meditation, but without any message from the
other world; or you may hear words that burn, the voices of
disembodied genius. In any case, while you are with us you will be
away from the dust and traffic of the material world."
Yes, she would go, she was only too glad to be allowed to be among
his disciples.
"I want to escape," she told him. "I am tired of my futile life—so
tired."
"I thought you would have joined us long ago," he said, as he took
leave, "but I think I know the influence that held you back."
The hot blood rushed into her face, the red fire of conscious guilt
that always came at the thought of Claude Rutherford. She had
never minimised her sin. It was sin to have made him essential to
her happiness, to have lost interest in all the rest of her life, to have
given him her heart and mind.
"I think the psychological moment has come," continued Symeon's
slow, grave voice, "and that you should now become one of us. You
have drained the cup of this trivial life, and have found its bitterness.
Our religion is our faith in the After-life. We have the faith that looks
through death. The orthodox Christian talks of the life beyond; and
we must give him credit for sometimes thinking of it—but does he
realise it? Is it near him? Does he look through death to the Spirit-
world beyond? Does he realise the After-life as Christ realised it
when He talked with His disciples?"
 CHAPTER IX
The meeting in Mr. Symeon's library lasted all through the summer
afternoon, till the edge of evening. The large and gloomy room was
darkened by Venetian shutters, nearly closed over open windows.
There was air, and the ceaseless sound of traffic; but the summer
sun was excluded, and figures were seen dimly, as if they belonged
to the shadow world.
Among those indistinct forms Vera recognised people she knew,
people she would never have expected to find in a society of
mystics: a statesman, a poet, three popular novelists, and half a
dozen of the idlest women of her acquaintance, two of whom were
the heroines of romantic stories, women over whose future friends
watched and prophesied with the keen interest that centres in a
domestic situation where catastrophe seems imminent.
Vera wondered, seeing these two. Had they come, like her, for a
refuge from the tragedy of life? They had not come for an escape
from sin; for, if their friends were to be believed, the border line had
been passed long ago.
An hour of silence, broken now and then by deep breathing, as of
agitation, and sometimes by a stifled sob, and then a flood of words,
speech that was eloquent enough to seem inspired, speech that
might have come from him who wrote "Christmas Eve," and "Easter
Day," and "A Death in the Desert," the speech of a believer in all
that is most divine in the promise of a future life. And after that
burst of impassioned utterance there were other speakers, men and
women, the men strong in faith, strong in the gift of tongues,
possessed by the higher mind that spoke through organs of common
clay; the women semi-hysterical, romantic, eloquent with
remembered poetry. But in men and women alike there was
sincerity, an intense belief in that close contact of disembodied mind,
sincerity that carried conviction to an imaginative neophyte like Vera
Provana.
Suddenly from the stillness there came a voice more thrilling than
any Vera had heard in that long séance, a voice that was not
altogether unfamiliar, but with a note more intense, more poignant
than she knew. Gleaming through the shadows, she saw eyes that
flashed green light, and a long, thin face of marble pallor, in which
she knew the face of Lady Fanny Ransom.
And now came the most startling speech that had been heard that
afternoon—the passionate advocacy of Free Love—love released
from the dominion of law, the bonds of custom, the fear of the
world; love as in Shelley's wildest dreams, but more transcendental
than in the dreams of poets; the love of spirit for spirit, soul for soul,
"pure to pure"—as Milton imagined the love of angels. All the
grossness of earth was eliminated from that rarefied atmosphere in
which Francis Symeon's disciples had their being. Their first and
indispensable qualification was to have liberated thought and feeling
from the dominion of the senses. While still wearing the husk of the
flesh, they were to be spirits; and not till they had become spirits
were they capable of communion with those radiant beings whose
earthly vesture had been annihilated by death.
To Vera there was an awful beauty in those echoes of great minds;
and her faith was strong in the belief that among this little company
of aspiring mortals there hovered the spirits of the illustrious dead.
She left Mr. Symeon's room with those others, who dispersed in
absolute silence, as good people leave a church, with no recognition
of each other, stealing away as from a service of unusual solemnity.
They did not even look at each other, nor did they take leave of Mr.
Symeon, who stood by one of the shuttered windows, gravely
watching as his guests departed.
It was past seven, and the sun was low, as Vera went to her
carriage, which was waiting for her in Burlington Gardens. She was
stepping into it, when a too familiar voice startled her. She had been
too deep in thought to see Claude Rutherford waiting for her at the
gate of the "Albany."
"Send your carriage home, Vera, and walk through the Green Park
with me. You must want fresh air after the gloom of Symeon's
Egyptian temple."
"No, no. I am going straight home."
"Indeed you are not," and without further argument he took upon
himself to give the order to the footman.
"Your mistress will walk home."
She would have resisted; but it was not easy to dispute with a man
who had a way of taking things for granted, especially those things
he wanted. It would have been easier to contend against energy, or
even brute force, than against that nonchalant self-assurance of an
amiable idler, who sauntered through life, getting his own way by a
passive resistance of all opposing circumstances.
"I have been waiting nearly two hours," he said. "It would be hard if
you couldn't give me half an hour before your dinner. I know you
never dine before half-past eight."
"But I have to be punctual. Aunt Mildred is coming to dinner, and
Susie Amphlett."
"It has only just struck seven. You shall be home before eight, and I
suppose you can dress in half an hour."
"I won't risk not being in the drawing-room when Aunt Mildred
comes."
"Lady Okehampton is a terror, I admit. You shall be home in good
time, child. But I must have something for my two hours."
"How absurd of you to wait," she said lightly. "And how did you
know I was at Mr. Symeon's?"
They were going through the "Albany" to Piccadilly. She had
recovered from the shock of his appearance, and was able to speak
with the old trivial air, the tone of comradeship, an easy friendliness,
without the possibility of deeper feeling. It had seemed so natural
before the consciousness of sin; and it had been so sweet. This
evening, as she walked by his side, she began to think that they
might still be comrades and friends, without the shadow of fear; that
her agony of awakened conscience had been foolish and hysterical,
imaginary sin, like the self-accusation of some demented nun.
"How did I know? Well, after calling at your house repeatedly, only
to be told you were not at home, I lost my temper, and determined
to find out where you were—at least for this one afternoon, when I
knew of no high jinks in the houses of your friends; and so, having
asked an impertinent question or two of your butler, I found that
Symeon had been with you yesterday, and guessed that you might
be at his occult assembly this afternoon. I had heard a whisper of
such an assembly more than a week ago—so you see the process of
discovery was not difficult."
"But why take so much trouble?"
"Why? Because you have treated me very badly, and I don't mean to
put up with that kind of treatment. If it comes to why, I have my
own 'why' to ask—a why that I must have answered. What ignorant
sin have I committed that it should be 'Darwaza band' when I call in
Portland Place? What has become of our cousinship; our memory of
childish pleasures, the sea, the woods, the heather; the pony that
ran away with you, while I stood with my blood frozen, telling
myself, 'If he kills her I shall throw myself over the cliff'? What has
become of our past, Vera? Is blood to be no thicker than water? Is
the bond of our childish affection to go for nothing? Is it because I
am a failure that you have cut me?"
"I have not cut you, Claude. How can you say such a thing?"
"Have you not? Then I know nothing of the cutting process. To be
always out when I call—to take infinite trouble to avoid me when we
meet in other people's houses! The cut direct was never more stony-
hearted and remorseless."
"You must not fancy things," she said lightly.
They were in the Green Park by this time, the quiet Green Park,
whence nursemaids and children had vanished, and where even
loafers were few at this hour between afternoon and evening.
She spoke lightly, and there was a lightness at her heart that was
new. It was sweet to be with him—sweet to be walking at his side
on the old familiar terms, friends, companions, comrades, as of old.
His careless speech, his supreme ease of manner, seemed to have
broken a spell. She looked back and thought of her troubled
conscience, and all the scheming and distress of the last two
months, and she felt as if she had awakened from a fever dream,
from a dreary interval of delirium and hysteria. What danger could
there be in such a friendship? What had tragedy to do with Claude
Rutherford? This airy trifler, this saunterer through life, was not of
the stuff of which lovers are made. He was a man whom all women
liked; but he was not the man whom a woman calls her Fate, and
who cannot be her friend without being her destroyer. How could
she ever have feared him? He was of her own blood. His respect for
her race—the race to which he belonged—would hold him in check,
even if there were no other restraining influences. The burden of
fear was lifted; and her spirits rose to a girlish lightness, as she
walked by her cousin's side with swift footsteps, listening to his
playful reproaches, his facetious bewailing of his worthlessness.
From this time forward she would treat him as a brother. She would
never again think it possible that words of love, unholy words, could
fall from his lips. No such word had ever been spoken; and was it
not shameful in her to have feared him—to imagine him a lover
while he had always shown himself her loyal kinsman? In this new
and happy hour she forgot that it was her own heart that had
sounded the alarm—that it was because she loved him, not because
he loved her, that she had resolved upon ruling him out of her life.
Perhaps this evening, after the glamour of Mr. Symeon's assembly,
she was "fey." This sudden rush of gladness, this ecstasy of reunion
with the friend from whom she had compassed heaven and earth to
hold herself aloof, seemed more than the gladness of common day.
She trod on air; and when they pulled up suddenly at Hyde Park
Comer, it was a surprise to find that they had not been walking
towards Portland Place.
"We must make for Stanhope Gate and cross Grosvenor Square and
Bond Street," Claude said gaily. "We have come a long way round,
but a walk is a walk, and I have no doubt we both wanted one.
Perhaps you would prefer a cab."
"No, I like walking, if there is time."
"Plenty of time. You walk like Atalanta, if that young person ever
condescended to anything but a run."
"Do you remember our walks in the woods, and the afternoon we
lost our way and could not get home for the nursery tea?"
"You mean when I lost my way, and you had to tramp the shoes off
your dear little feet. Brave little minx, I shall never forget how plucky
you were, and how you kept back the tears when your lips quivered
with pain."
Once launched upon reminiscences of that golden summer there
was no gap in their talk till the lions' heads were frowning at them
on the threshold of Vera's home.
She was flushed with her walk, and the colour in cheeks that were
generally pale gave a new brightness to her eyes. That long talk of
her childish days had taken her out of her present life. She was a
child again, happy in the present moment, without the wisdom that
looks before and after.
"Good-bye," said Claude; and then, pausing, with his hand on the
moody lion, "if you had some vague idea of asking me to dinner, it
would be a kindness to give shape to the notion, for I shan't get a
dinner anywhere else. My mother is in the country, and a solitary
meal at a restaurant is worse than a funeral."
Vera hesitated, with a faint blush, not being able utterly to forget her
determination to keep Claude Rutherford out of her daily life.
"Lady Okehampton expects to find me alone," she said.
"But you have Susie Amphlett?"
"Susie invited herself."
"As I am doing. Three women! What a funereal feast; as bad as
Domitian's black banquet. Your aunt dotes upon me, and so does
Susan. You will score by having secured me. You can say I threw
over a long engagement for the sake of meeting them. I dare say
there is some solemn dinner invitation stuck in my chimney glass. I
often forget such things."
The doors were flung open, and the suave man in black and his
liveried lieutenants awaited their mistress's entrance.
"A ce soir," said Claude, as he hailed a prowling hansom; and he
was seated in it, smiling at her with lifted hat, before Vera had time
to answer him.
"Mr. Rutherford will dine here this evening," she told the butler.
 CHAPTER X
Vera was walking up and down her drawing-room at twenty minutes
past eight, dressed in one of those filmy white evening gowns with
which her wardrobe was always supplied, one of her mermaid
frocks, as Lady Susan called them. This one was all gauzy whiteness,
with something green and glittering that flashed out of the
whiteness now and then, to match the emerald circlet in her cloudy
hair.
The tender carnation that had come from her walk was still in her
cheeks, still giving unusual brightness to her eyes.
She had been happy; she had put away dark thoughts. Life was gay
and glad once again, glad and gay as it had always been when she
and Claude were together. A load had been lifted from her heart, the
vulgar terror of the conventional wife, who could not imagine
friendship without sin. The things that she had heard that afternoon
had given a new meaning to life, had lifted her thoughts and feelings
from the commonplace to the transcendental; to the sphere in which
there was no such thing as sin, where there were only darkness and
light, where the senses had no power over the soul that dwelt in
communion with souls released from earth. She no longer feared a
lover in the friend she had chosen out of the common herd.
Lady Okehampton sailed into the drawing-room as the silvery chime
of an Italian clock told the half-hour. Her expansive person, clad in
amber satin, glowed like the setting sun, and her smiling face
radiated good nature.
She put up her long glass to look at Vera, being somewhat short-
sighted physically as well as morally.
"My dear child, you are looking worlds better than when I last saw
you. You were such a wreck at Lady Mohun's ball; looked as if you
ought to have been in bed, doing a rest cure—a ghost in a diamond
tiara. I find that when a woman is looking ill diamonds always make
her look worse; but to-night you are charming. That emerald
bandeau suits you better than the thing you wore at the ball. You
haven't the aquiline profile that can carry off an all-round crown."
Claude and Lady Susan came in together.
"My car nearly collided with his taxi," said Lady Susie, when she had
embraced her friend; "but I was very glad to see a man at your door.
From what you said this morning, I expected a hen-party. Now a big
hen-party is capital fun; but for three women to sit at meat alone!
The idea opens an immeasurable vista of boredom. I always feel as
if I must draw the butler into the conversation, and bandy an
occasional joke with the footmen. No doubt they could be immensely
funny if one would let them."
"It was an after-thought," said Claude. "Vera took fright at the
eleventh hour, and admitted the serpent into her paradise."
"No doubt Adam and Eve were dull—a perpetual tête-à-tête,
tempered by tame lions, must soon have palled; but at least it was
better than three women, yawning in each other's faces, after
exhausting the latest scandal."
"I think the early dinner in 'Paradise Lost' quite the dullest meal on
record," said Claude. "To begin with, it was vegetarian and non-
alcoholic. A man and his wife—the wife waiting at table—and one
prosy guest monologuing from the eggs to the apples."
"There is no mention of eggs. I don't think they had anything so
comfortable as a poultry yard in Eden; no buff Orpingtons, or white
Wyandottes, only eagles and nightingales," said Susie, and at this
moment the butler announced dinner in a confidential murmur, as if
it were a State secret. He was neither stout nor elderly; but in his
tall slimness and grave countenance there was a dignity that would
have reduced the most emancipated of matrons to good behaviour.
"I should never dare to draw him into the conversation," whispered
Susie, as Claude offered his arm to Lady Okehampton. "Nothing
would tempt that perfect creature to a breach of etiquette."
The hen-dinner, relieved by one man, was charming. Not too long a
dinner; for one of the discoveries of this easy-going century is that
people don't want to sit for an hour and a half steeping themselves
in the savour of expensive food, while solemn men in plush and silk
stockings stalk behind their back in an endless procession, carrying
dishes whose contents are coldly glanced at and coldly refused. The
dinner was short, but perfect: too short for the talk, which was gay
and animated from start to finish.
Lady Susan and Mr. Rutherford were the talkers, Vera and her aunt
only coming in occasionally: Lady Okehampton with a comfortable
common-sense that was meant to keep the rodomontade within
bounds.
Claude was an omnivorous reader, and had always a new set of
anecdotes and epigrams with which to keep the talk alive, anecdotes
so brief and sparkling that he seemed to flash them across the table
like pistol shots. French, German, or Italian, his accent was faultless,
and his enunciation clear as that of the most finished comedian;
while in the give and take of friendly chaff with such an interlocutor
as Lady Susan, he was a past master.
Vera did not talk much, but she looked radiant, the lovely
embodiment of youth and gladness. Her light laughter rang clear
above Susan's, after Claude's most successful stories. Once only
during that gay repast was a graver note sounded, and it came from
the most frivolous of the party, from Susie Amphlett, who had one
particular aversion, which she sometimes enlarged upon with a
morbid interest.
Age was Susan's bugbear.
"I think of it when I wake in the night, like Camilla, in 'Great
Expectations,'" she said, looking round the table with frightened
eyes, as if she were seeing ghosts.
The grapes and peaches had been handed, and it was the
confidential quarter of an hour after the servants had gone.
"I don't like to give myself away before a butler," Susie said, as the
door closed on the last of the silk stockings. "Footmen are non-
existent: one doesn't stop to consider whether they are matter, or
only electricity; but a butler is a person and can think—perhaps a
socialistic satirist, seething with silent scorn for his mistress and her
friends."
"And no doubt an esteemed contributor to one of the Society
Papers," said Claude.
"I am not afraid of Democracy, nor the English adaptation of the
French Revolution, though I feel sure it is coming," continued Lady
Susan, planting her elbow on the table in an expansive mood. "I am
afraid of nothing except growing old. That one terror swallows up all
trivial fears. They might take my money, they might steep me in
poverty to the lips, and if I could keep youth and good looks, I
should hardly mind."
Again she looked at the others appealingly, like a child that is afraid
of Red Riding-hood's wolf.
"Age is such a hideous disease—the one incurable malady. And we
must all have it. We are all growing old; even you, Vera, though you
have not begun to think about it. I didn't till I was thirty. As we sit at
this table and laugh and amuse ourselves, the sands are falling,
falling, falling—they never stop! Glad or sorry, that horrible disease
goes on, till the symptoms suddenly become acute—grey hair,
wrinkles, gout."
"But are there not some mild pleasures left in the years that bring
the philosophic mind?" asked Claude.
"Does that mean when one is eighty? At eighty one might easily be
philosophic. Everything would be over and done with. One would be
like old Lord Tyrawly, who said he was dead, though people did not
know it."
"Some of the most delightful people I have known were old, and
even very old," said Claude, "but they didn't mind. That's the secret
of eternal youth, my dear Susie—not to mind: to wear the best wig
you can buy, and not to pretend it is your own hair: to wear pretty
clothes, especially suited to your years, sumptuous velvet and more
sumptuous fur, like a portrait of an old lady by Velasquez: never to
brag of your age, but never to be ashamed of it. The last phase may
be the best phase, if one has the philosophic mind."
"Oh, you," exclaimed Susan scornfully, "you are like Chesterfield. You
will have your good manners till your last death-bed visitor has been
given a chair. A fine manner is the only thing that time can't touch."
Vera saw her aunt looking bored, and smiled the signal for moving.
"Half a cigarette, and I shall follow," said Claude, as he opened the
door for the trio, "unless I am distinctly forbidden."
"Why should we forbid you? You are an artist, and you know more
about frocks and hats than we do, after years of laborious study,"
said Lady Susan, and then, with her arm through Vera's as they
went slowly up the broad staircase, with steps so shallow that
people accustomed to small houses were in danger of falling over
them, "Isn't he incomparable?" she exclaimed. "There never was
such a delightful failure."
"Poor Claude," sighed Lady Okehampton. "I suppose it is only the
men who fail in everything who have time to be agreeable. If a
young man has a great ambition, and is thinking of his career, he is
generally a bear. Claude has wasted all his chances in life, and can
afford to waste his time."
"It was a pity he left the Army," said Susan. "He looked lovely in his
uniform. I remember him as he flashed past me in a hansom, one
summer morning after a levée, a vision of beauty."
"It was a pity he got himself entrapped by a bad woman," said Lady
Okehampton with a sigh.
"His Colonel's second wife," put in Lady Susan. "Isn't it always the
elderly Colonel's second wife?"
Lady Okehampton gave another sigh.
"It was a disgraceful story," she murmured. "Let us try to forget all
about it."
Vera had flushed and paled while they were talking.
"But tell me about it, Aunt Mildred," she said, with a kind of angry
eagerness. "Where was the disgrace, more than in all such cases? A
wicked woman, a foolish young man—very young, wasn't he?"
"Not five and twenty."
"Where was the disgrace?"
"Don't excite yourself, child. Duplicity—an old man's heart broken—
Isn't that enough? An elopement or not an elopement; something
horrid that happened after a regimental ball. I know nothing of the
details, for it all took place while the regiment was in India, which
only shows that Kipling's stories are true to life. The husband would
not divorce her—which was a blessing—or Claude would have had to
marry her. He spoilt his career by the intrigue; but marriage would
have been worse."
Vera's heart was beating violently when Claude sauntered into the
room presently, and made his leisurely way to the sofa where she
was sitting aloof from the other two, who had just entered upon an
animated discussion of the last fashionable nerve-specialist and his
methods.
"What has made you so pale?" Claude asked, as he seated himself
by Vera's side. "Was our walk through the streets too much for you?
I should never forgive myself if——"
"You have nothing to be sorry for. The walk was delightful. My aunt
and Susie have been talking of unpleasant things."
"What kind of things?"
"Of your leaving the Army. You have never told me why you threw
up your career."
"My career! There was not much to lose. The Boer War was over;
my regiment was in India all the time, and I never had a look in. Oh,
they have been telling you an ugly story about your poor friend; and
it will be 'The door is shut' again, I suppose."
"Why did not you tell me of your past life? I have told you
everything about mine."
"Because you had only nice innocent things to tell. My story would
not bear telling—and why should you want to know?"
"There should not be a wall between friends—such friends as we
have been—like brother and sister."
"Do brothers tell old love stories? Stale, barren stories of loves that
are dead?"
"Perhaps not. I oughtn't to have spoken about it. Come and talk to
Aunt Mildred. Her carriage has been announced, and she'll be huffed
if we don't go to her."
Claude followed meekly, and in five minutes Lady Okehampton had
forgotten that it was eleven o'clock, and that her horses had been
waiting half an hour. He had a curious power of making women
pleased with themselves, and with him. He always flattered them;
but his flattery was so discreet and subtle as to be imperceptible. It
was rather his evident delight in being with them and talking to
them that pleased, than anything that he said.
"Come to River Mead for next Sunday. It will be my last week-end
party before we go to Scotland," Lady Okehampton said to him
before she bade good night. "Vera and Susan are coming. We shall
be a small party, and there will be plenty of bridge."
Claude accepted the invitation as he took Lady Okehampton to her
carriage.
"I wish Provana were not so much away from his wife," she said. "It
is a very difficult position for Vera."
"Vera is not la première venue. She knows how to take care of
herself."
"That's what they always say about women; but is it true in her
case? She is very young, and rather simple, and knows very little of
the world."
"Not after six years as the wife of a financial Crœsus?" murmured
Claude, while he arranged the matron's voluminous mantle over her
shoulders as carefully as if the outside atmosphere had been arctic.
He knew that the drift of her speech had been by way of warning for
him. Dear, inconsistent soul! It was so like her to invite him to spend
three days with her niece in the sans gêne of a riverside villa, and
five minutes afterwards to sound a note of warning.
He walked along the lamp-lit streets with the light foot of triumphant
love. Vera's pale distress and unwise questioning had set his heart
beating with the presage of victory. Poor child! For his acute
perceptions, the heart of a woman had seldom been a mystery, and
this woman's heart was easier to read than most. Poor child! She
had been trying to live without him. She had fought her poor little
battle, with more of resolution and of courage than he would have
expected from a creature so tender. She had kept him out of her life
for a long time—time that had seemed an eternity for him, in his
longing for her; and then, at a word, at a smile, at the touch of his
hand, she had yielded, and had let him see that to be with him was
to be happy, and that nothing else mattered. Light love had been his
portion in the light years of youth; but this was no light love. He had
sacrificed his career for the sake of a woman; but the sacrifice had
been forced upon him, and it had killed his love. But now he was
prepared for any sacrifice—for the sacrifice of life-long exile, and
strained means. He thought of a home in a summer isle of the great
southern ocean, like Stevenson's; or, if gaiety were better, in some
romantic city of Spanish America. There were paradises enough in
the world, there would be no one to point the finger of scorn, where
"Society" was a word of no meaning.
He would carry his love to the world's end, beyond the reach of
shame. Nothing mattered but Vera. Yes, there was one who
mattered. His mother! But to-night he could not even think of her, or
if he thought of her it was to tell himself that if Provana divorced his
wife, and he and Vera were married, his mother would be reconciled
to the inevitable. Her religion would be a stumbling block. To her
mind such a marriage would be no marriage. To-night he could not
reason, he would not see obstacles in his path. Vera's pale looks and
anxious questions had been a confession of love, a forecast of
surrender; and in the tumult of his thoughts there was no room for
hesitation or for fear.
He thought of his love now as duty. It was his duty to rescue this
dear girl from a loveless union with a hard man of business, old
enough to be her father, from splendours and luxuries that had
become as dust and ashes. He had known for a long time that she
cared for him; but he had never reckoned the strength of her
attachment. Only this afternoon, in her radiant happiness, as they
walked through the unromantic streets; only in her pale distress to-
night, as she questioned him, had he discovered his power: and now
there seemed to be but one possible issue—a new life for them both.
His mother's absence from London was an inexpressible relief to
him. How could he have met the tender questioning of the eyes that
watched over his life, and had learned how to read his mind from
the time when thought began? How could he have hidden the
leaping, passionate thoughts, the sense of a crisis in his fate, the
ardent expectation, the dream of joy, the fever and excitement in
the mind of a man who is making his plan of a new life, a life of
exquisite happiness?
 CHAPTER XI
It was Saturday, and they were at River Mead—one of those ideal
places that seem to have been raised along the upper Thames by an
enchanter's wand rather than by the vulgar arts of architect and
builder, so exquisitely do they harmonise with the landscape that
enshrines them.
No hideous chimney, no mammoth reservoir, no thriving
metropolitan High Street, defiled the neighbourhood of River Mead.
All around was rustic peace. Green meadows and blue waters,
amidst which there lay gardens that had taken a century to make—
grass walks between yew hedges, and labyrinths of roses; and in the
distance purple woods that melted into a purple horizon. It was a
place that people always thought of as steeped in golden sunlight;
but not even in the glory of a midsummer afternoon was River Mead
quite as lovely as on such a night as this, when Claude and Vera
strolled slowly along the river path, in the silver light of a great
round moon, hung in the blue deep of a sky without a cloud.
The magic of night and moonshine was upon everything; the
mystery of light and shadow gave a charm to things that were
commonplace by day—to the white balustrade in front of the
drawing-rooms, to the flight of steps and the marble vases, above
which the lighted windows shone golden, the gaudy yellow light of
indoor lamps shamed by the white glory of the moon.
The windows were all open, and the voices of the card-players
travelled far in the clear air—they could even hear the light sound of
their cards, manipulated by a dexterous hand. Everybody was
playing bridge, everybody was absorbed in the game, winning or
losing, happy or unhappy, but absorbed—except these two.
Everybody except these two, who had been missing since ten
o'clock; and the great stable clock had sounded its twelve slow,
sonorous strokes half an hour ago. They had not been wanted. The
tables were all full. Two or three of the players had looked round the
room once or twice, and, noting their absence, had exchanged the
quiet smile, the almost imperceptible elevation of arched eyebrows,
with which, in a highly civilised community, characters can be killed.
For Lady Okehampton—she who had more than once sounded the
note of warning, and who should have been on the alert to see
danger signals—from the moment the tables were opened and the
players seated, the world of men and women outside that charmed
space—where cards fluttered lightly upon smooth green cloth, four
eager faces watching them as they fell—had ceased to exist. She
was not a stupid woman; but she had a mind that moved slowly, and
she could not think of two serious things at once. For her bridge was
a serious thing; and from tea-time on Saturday till this Sunday
midnight bridge had occupied all her thoughts, to the exclusion of
every other consideration. Smiles might be exchanged and eyebrows
raised when, on Sunday morning, Claude Rutherford carried off her
niece two miles up the river to a village church, which by his account
was a gem in early Gothic that was worth more than the two miles'
sculling a light skiff against the current; but Lady Okehampton was
too absorbed even to wonder whether there was anything not quite
correct in the excursion. Why should not people want to see the old
church at Allersley? It was one of the lions of the neighbourhood,
and counted among the attractions of River Mead.
Lady Okehampton's cards on Saturday night had seemed to be dealt
to her by a malignant fiend, an invisible devil guiding the smooth
white hands of human dealers. She had lain awake till the Sunday
morning bells were ringing for the early service to which good
people were going, fresh and light of foot, with minds at ease. She
had tossed and turned in her sumptuous bed in a feverish unrest,
playing her miserable hands over and over again, with the restless
blood in her brain going round and round like a mill wheel, or
plunging backwards and forwards like a piston rod. There had been
no time to think of Vera and Claude. She could think only of Sunday
evening, and of her chance of revenge. It was not that she minded
her money losses, which were despicable when reckoned against the
price of Okehampton's autumn sport. Two thousand pounds for a
grouse moor and a salmon river—an outlay of which he talked as
lightly as if it were a new hat. The money was nothing. He would
give as much for an Irish setter as she lost in an evening. But the
vexation and humiliation of a long evening's bad luck were too much
for nerves that had been strained to snapping point by many
seasons of experimental treatment, all over Europe; and the mistress
of River Mead had left her visitors to amuse themselves at their own
sweet will, until dinner-time on Sunday evening, while their hostess
slept in her easy-chair by the open window of her morning-room,
soothed by the lullaby of the stream running down the weir, and
sweet airs from a garden of roses, such roses as only grow in a
riverside garden.
The choice of amusements or occupations after luncheon on this
Sunday afternoon was somewhat limited. Two girls and their
youthful admirers played a four-handed game of croquet. A middle-
aged spinster, who had been suspected of tricky play on Saturday,
trudged a mile and a quarter to the little town where there was a
church so old-fashioned as to provide a substantial afternoon service
for adult worshippers. Most of the masculine guests wrote letters, or
read Sunday papers in the billiard-room, or slumbered in basket
chairs on the river lawn. Vera and Claude did nothing out of the
common in strolling up the hill to the wood, where they lost
themselves during the lazy two hours between the end of a leisurely
luncheon and the appearance of tea-tables in the shady drawing-
room. Coming back a little tired after her idle afternoon, Vera sat on
a sofa in the darkest corner of the spacious room, by the side of a
comfortable matron, an old friend of her aunt's, with whom she
exchanged amiable truisms, and mild opinions upon books, plays
and sermons—a kind of talk that demanded neither thought nor
effort, while Claude sat among a distant group, bored to death, but
smiling and courteous.
After tea there was the garden till dressing time. Everybody was in
the garden, so it was only natural that these two should be
sauntering in lanes of roses, exchanging light talk with other
saunterers, and lingering a little at the crossing of the ways, where
the slow drip of a fountain made a coolness in the sultry evening, or
stopping at an opening in the flowery rampart, to look across the
blue water towards the grey old tower, and listen to the pensive
music of church bells.
These two had been alone all day, without interference or espial
from chaperon Aunt, unconscious of observation, if they were
observed, alone in this little world of summer verdure and sunlit
water; as much alone as in a pathless wilderness. All that long
summer day they had been alone, talking, talking, talking, as only
lovers talk; and now, at midnight, they were still alone in the garden
that was changed in the moonlight, changed from the warm glow of
colour to the silvery paleness and mysterious shadow, in which the
prolific clusters of the Félicité pérpétuelle looked like the ghosts of
roses.
If it were sin to love, the sin had been sinned; from the hour in
which he had drawn the confession of her love from the lips that he
kissed for the first time.
She had tried to hold him off—tried to keep those lips unprofaned by
the kiss of guilt. They were alone in the wood on the hill that fatal
Sunday afternoon, safe only for the moment, since the woodland
path was a favourite walk with visitors at River Mead. But he had
drawn her from the footpath into the shade of great beech trees,
and they were alone. He had kissed her, and she had submitted to
the guilty kiss, and she knew that she was lost.
Did she love him? She whispered yes. With all her heart and soul?
Yes. Could she be happy if he left her for ever? No, no, no. Could
she give up all the world for him, as he would for her? The lips that
he had kissed were too tremulous for speech. She hid her face upon
his breast, and was dumb.
"The die is cast," he said in a low, grave voice, "and now we have
only to think of our future."
"Our future?" Henceforth they were one; united by a bond as strong
as if they had been married before the high altar in Westminster
Abbey, with all the best people in London looking on and approving
the bond. Nothing else could matter now. They belonged to each
other. He was to command, and she was to obey. It was almost as if,
in the moment of her confession, her personal entity had ceased. In
all those hours of delicious intimacy, in fond imaginings of their
future life, the thought of her husband had never come between her
and her lover—and to-night, when she thought of Mario Provana, it
was only to tell herself that he had long ceased to care for her, and
that it would not hurt him if she were to vanish out of his life.
Provana had been gone more than fourteen days, and his cabled
messages told her of delays and difficulties. The financial crisis was
more serious than he had anticipated, and he would have to see it
out. He had sent her several messages, but only one letter—a kind
letter, such as an uncle might have written to a niece; but it seemed
to her there was no love in it, not even such love as he had lavished
on his daughter. There was nothing left of the love that had wrapped
her round like summer sunlight, the strong man's love that had
made her so proud of having been chosen by him, so tranquil in the
assurance of a happiness that nothing could change.
The change had come before they had lived a year in that great,
gloomy London house, when she had been less than two years a
wife.
It was after parting with Claude in the garden, and creeping quietly
up to her room in the second hour of the new day, while doors were
beginning to open and voices to sound as the card-players bade
good-night; it was in the stillness of the pretty guest-chamber that
Vera began to think of Mario Provana, and the impassioned love that
had ended in a frozen aloofness.
He had said, "Let there be no pretending." Could he have told her
more absolutely that his love was dead, and that no charm of
sweetness in her could make it live again? She had made her poor
little attempt to win him back; and it had failed. What more was left
but to be happy in her own way?
 CHAPTER XII
The season was dying hard. Lady Leominster's ball, at the great old
house at Fulham, was the last flash of an expiring fire. The Houses
of Parliament had closed their historic doors. The walls of the Royal
Academy had been stripped of their masterpieces, and empty
themselves, looked down upon dusty emptiness. All the best
theatres were shut; London was practically empty. The few thousand
lingerers in a wilderness of deserted streets bewailed the inanity of
the daily Press. There was nothing in the morning papers; and the
evening papers were worse, since they were obliged to echo the
morning nothingness.
The people who never read books were longing for something
startling in those indispensable papers, were it even a declaration of
war. Suddenly their longing was satisfied. The morning papers were
devoured with eagerness. The evening paper was waited for with
feverish expectancy. All of a sudden the great army of the brainless
found themselves with something to think about, something to talk
about, something upon which to build up hypotheses, to which, once
built, they adhered with a fierce persistency.
There had been a murder. A murder in the heart of London, in one
of the fine houses of the West End; not one of the finest, for, after
all, spacious and splendid as the house might be, it was not like
Berkeley or Devonshire, Lansdowne or Stafford. It was only one in a
row of spacious houses, the house of a foreign financier, a man who
dealt in millions, and who was himself the owner of millions.
Mario Provana had been murdered in his own house—shot through
the heart by an unknown assassin, who had done his work well
enough to leave no clue to his identity. Speculation might rove at
will, theory and hypothesis might run riot. Here was endless talk for
dinner-tables—inexhaustible copy for the newspaper.
A man of great wealth, of exalted position in the world of finance—
finance, not commerce. Here was no dealer in commodities, no
manufacturer of cocoa, or sugar, or reels of cotton, but a man who
dealt in the world's wealth, and could make peace or war by opening
or closing his money-bags.
People who had never seen the great man's face in the flesh were
just as keenly interested in the circumstances of his death as the
people who had dined at his table and had known him as intimately
as such men ever are known. A rough print of his photograph was in
every halfpenny paper, and the likeness of his beautiful young wife
was travestied in some of them. Pictures of the house in Portland
Place, front and back view, were in all the papers. Columns of
picturesque reporting described the man and the house, the
beautiful young wife, the sumptuous furniture, the numerous
household, the splendid entertainments which had made the house
famous for the last six or seven years.
And for the murdered man himself, no details were omitted.
Interviews were invented, in which, during the last year, Signor
Provana had expounded his opinions and views of that sphere of life
in which he exercised so vast an influence—his ideas political, his
tastes in art and literature, music, and the drama. Minute
descriptions of his person were given in the same glowing style. The
picturesque reporter made the dead man alive again for the million
readers who were panting for details that would help them to
strengthen their own pet theory or to crush an opponent.
Thousands of sensation-hunters went to Portland Place to look at
the house that held that dreadful mystery of a life untimely cut short
by the hand of a murderer. Loafers stood on the pavement and
gazed and gazed, as if their hungry eyes would have pierced dead
walls and darkened windows. The loafers knew that the house was
in charge of the police, and that a vigilant watch was being kept
there. They wondered whether the lovely young wife was in the
house. They pictured her weeping alone in one of those darkened
rooms; yet were inclined to think that her friends would have
insisted on her leaving that house of gloom, and would have carried
her off to some less terrible place for rest and comfort.
The first idea was the correct one. Vera was lying in that spacious
bed-chamber behind three windows on the second floor, where ivy-
leaved geraniums were falling in showers of pale pink blossom from
the flower-boxes. She was lying on the vast Italian bed, lying like a
stone figure, while Susan Amphlett sat by the bed, and wept and
sighed, with intervals of vague, consoling speech, till, finding that
speech elicited no reply, and indeed seemed unheard, she had at
last, in sheer vacuity of mind, to take refuge in the first book within
reach of her hand.
It was one among many small volumes on a table by the bed—Omar
Kháyyam.
"Oh, what a dreary book," thought Susie, who was beginning to feel
her office of consoler something of a burden.
She had hated entering that dreadful house, as she always called it
in her thoughts, since she had heard of the murder; and now to be
sitting there in that deadly silence, in that grey light from shrouded
windows, to be sitting there with the knowledge that only a little
way off, in another darkened room at the back of the dreadful
house, there lay death in its most appalling form, was a kind of
martyrdom for which Susie was unprepared, and which she was not
constituted to suffer calmly or lightly. As she had hated old age, so,
with a deeper hate, she hated death. To hear of it, to be forced to
think of it, was agonising; and to visualise the horror lying so near
her, a murdered man in his bloodstained shroud, made her start up
from her easy chair and begin to roam about the room in
restlessness and fear.
She lifted the edge of a blind and peered into the street.
The sight of the people staring up at the house was comforting.
They were alive. There were people standing in the road, looking up
with widened eyes, so absorbed in what they saw, or wanted to see,
that they ran a risk of sudden annihilation from a motor-car, and
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