It is all very well to talk glibly about the advantages of calling a spade a spade, but when it comes to giving dozens of spades their unvarnished titles in the presence of one virgin clean woman, and when every fresh spade may be about to dig up the heart you would foster, the matter is no joke. By the time that Strange had arrived at the end of his unadorned record, his smooth, brick-dust cheeks looked gray and haggard, and his voice sounded tired. Once during the recital Gwen had lost guard over herself and had let a flash of half-triumphant interest escape from her eyes. It was when he had said—“Thank Heaven! I never loved one of these women, that is, taking love in its all-round, large sense.” When he had finished he stood up and looked at her, waiting. She had herself still in her power, she felt, with a wild leap of her spirit, she could yet ward off her fate and his; “his,” she thought with a wave of soft unaccustomed pity. She had nothing to give this man, nothing, not even the germs of a possible something—something called Love. She laughed aloud and looked in his face when the empty word stirred her brain, then she lowered her eyes and turned all her thoughts in on herself, moving a small pearl ring up and down her finger with a swift rhythmic movement.—This man would take her for mere hope—hope that had no foundation in fact,—it was a mean exchange, nothing for everything,—mean and unjust; for the minute she was hideous to herself, with her own whole life a protest against the injustice of others. She looked at him again, and a horrible power seemed to drag and bind her to him, she turned her eyes away angrily and made a little involuntary sound of trouble. “Oh, if I only could treat him as I did the others!” she muttered under her breath, “but I can’t, I can’t!” She was frightened at herself—at the power which drove her to the man inexorably,—she looked at the door and stirred in her seat, half-rising, but she sat down again and began to move her ring with the old movement, only quicker and with tenser fingers. Then a cold feeling of finality came on her, she knew she must say something and she knew she was going to say the wrong thing; an inexplicable smile flickered across her face and touched her mouth, she grew quite calm and ceased to move her ring. “You have done me a very high honour,” she said; “thank you.” He came nearer and looked down on her. “I have tried to be perfectly honest,” he said, “and you have no idea what an awful grind it has been. It would be quite impossible for me to give you any idea of how I honour you, and as for love—” he stopped, breathing hard, “I have a heart full for you, dear, I don’t think I know myself how much I love you.” The girl looked at him curiously, the simple intensity of his manner struck her, then her eyes fell and she sighed.