Each knew that the other was not satisfied at all, each knew the cause of that silent dissatisfaction with what life had to give. "I am satisfied," said the man grimly. It was the tone that said, "I will be satisfied in spite of fate! In spite of my own actions, my own sin, my own remorse, I will be satisfied!" "You have changed your note," said Florence, regarding him curiously. "And not too soon," he answered decisively. "There is nothing so useless as sorrowing over the past and regretting what cannot be undone. Let me recommend my philosophy of life to you. Make the best of what remains; we cannot bring back what we have cast away." There was a new hardness in his tone--not of recklessness, but of unflinching determination. He rose and stood on the hearthrug, with his hands behind him as he spoke. "I have taken a new departure. I have wasted many hours of the past. I am resolved to waste not one hour in future. 'Though much is taken, much remains,' as the poet says; and you and I, Florence, have all to look for in the future and nothing in the past." "That is true," she said, in a very low tone. "Nothing in the past!" Then she sat up, as if stirred to movement by his attitude, and looked at him again. "What has caused this change of mind, Hubert? Have you fallen in love?" He uttered a short laugh. "Not I--I don't know the sensation." "You knew it a few years ago, when I thought you would marry pretty Mary Marsden." "She married a Jew money-lender," said Hubert drily. "I saw her the other day--she weighs fourteen stone, I should think!" "Poor little Mary! It is not love then?" "No, it is not." He was silent a minute or two, pulling his moustache with a quick nervous movement which betrayed some agitation of mind. Then he said quickly, "I had better tell you something and get it over, though I have no wish to rake up the memory of unpleasant subjects. I heard a few months ago that the man Westwood was dead." "Dead? At Portland?" "Yes. An accident on the works where he was engaged. He died after a few hours' unconsciousness." Florence meditated for a few moments and then said softly-- "I think that I now understand." "It will be better that we do not speak of the matter again," said Hubert, in the masterful way which she was beginning to recognise as one of his characteristics. "It is all over and done with; nothing we can say or do will make any difference. The man is gone, and we are here. We can begin a new life if we choose." His sister watched him with eyes which expressed a greater gloom than he was able to understand. Her hands began to tremble as he said the last few words. "You can--you can!" she cried, almost with vehemence. "But for me--there is no new life for me!"--and covering her face with her hands, she began to weep, not violently, but so that he saw the tears oozing from between her slender fingers.