“Do you know that you look cold?” he demanded. “I want you to look at these and hold them till you are warmed through and through. What an absurd child it is to look so chilly in July!” She raised her eyes and let them rest on him with a sudden radiant expression of satisfaction. “It is because you are so unkind as to go away--occasionally,” she remarked. “Do I ever look cold or unhappy or dissatisfied while you are here?” “Once or twice in the last two weeks you have been all of that. Sweetheart, I must know what it means. Don’t you see you must tell me? How can one do anything for you when one doesn’t know what is the matter? And I am under orders to see that you get well forthwith. The doctor has given you up--to me!” He was startled when, instead of the laughing answer for which he looked, she caught her breath with half a sob. “Must I tell you?” she said. “Neil, I do not dare! When you are here I know it is not so. It is only when you are away from me that the hideous thought comes. And I fight it so! It is only because I am tired with fighting it that I do not get strong.” “Dear, what can you mean?” She shook her head. “It is too horrible, and you would never forgive me, though I know it cannot be true. Oh, Neil, Neil, _Neil_!” “Mildred, this is folly. I insist that you tell me at once.” His tone had lost its tender playfulness and was peremptory now. “Don’t you see that you are torturing me?” he said. She looked at him helplessly. “That day,” she said, reluctantly, “when the carriage tipped and you went out, I thought--I thought you jumped. Neil, don’t look so; I knew you could not have done it, and yet I can’t get rid of the thought, and it tortures me that I can think it--of you. Oh, I have hurt you!” He was no longer kneeling beside her, but had risen and was leaning against one of the pillars of the veranda, looking down at her with an expression she had never dreamed of seeing in his eyes when they rested on her face. He was white to the lips. “You thought that? You have thought it these two weeks?” “I tell you it is torture. Neil, say you did not, and let me be at rest.” “And you ask me to _deny_ it? You?” His voice was very bitter. “I wonder if you know what you are saying?” “Neil, Neil, say you did not!” He set his teeth. “Never!” He broke the silence which followed by asking, wearily, at last: “What was your idea in telling me this, Mildred? Of course you knew it was the sort of thing that is irrevocable.” “I knew nothing except that I must get rid of the thought.” “Can’t you imagine what it is to a man to be charged with cowardice?” “I charge nothing. But if you would only deny it!” “Oh, this is hopeless!” he said, with an impatient groan. “It is irremediable. If I denied it, you would still doubt; but even if you did not, I could never forget that you had once thought me a coward. There are some things one may not forgive.” Silence again. “And my--my wife must never have doubted me.”