“I am quite sure that Strange loves Gwen strongly and truly,” began Mr. Fellowes evasively. It was a difficult subject to thrash out thoroughly with this wonderful pair, it might be better to let it fade gradually from their minds, and to aid them to glide back into their own still waters. “Yes, but on what grounds?” went on Mr. Waring with strange persistence. “Have you ever spoken to Strange himself on the subject?” asked Mr. Fellowes. “Ahem, no. In fact, under like circumstances,” he reddened and coughed a little, “I should myself have resented any attempt of such nature. No, I did not put any questions to Strange. But will you not favour us with an opinion, you, who know our daughter so well?” “I think that, in a measure, Strange knows what he is about, and we are bound to trust his judgment. It would be folly to suppose that he sees the entire truth clearly, he is under the usual conditions of a man in love. Gwen dominates him as she does even us old married people, hearts and brains will always fall before our Gwen.” “What is the entire truth?” said Mrs. Waring, pushing her hair back and sitting up. “The truth as it strikes me,” said Mr. Fellowes very gently, “is, that Gwen is at present incapable of loving.” “You refer—ahem, to that phase of the emotion known as sexual love?” said Mr. Waring hurriedly. “Or of any other yet.” “I knew it, we both knew it, but it was hard to speak out,” murmured Mrs. Waring sadly. “She was in no way constrained,” said Mr. Waring in a frightened way. His wife sat still with sad wide eyes. “It seems a reasonless thing in one in Gwen’s position,” he went on with a fine touch of pride, “to marry without love. I know such things do happen now and again with young portionless women—women have a feline craving for soft living and pretty things, but our daughter Gwen—ah!” “I thought all this, I knew it,” said Mrs. Waring quietly, “I wished so often to ask Gwen definitely for the truth, but I did not seem able to do so, I wish now I had.” Mrs. Fellowes put her hands tenderly on her shoulders and made her lie down again. “She will love, she will be happy!” she whispered softly, “she is in good hands.” “Too soon, too soon!” murmured the mother, “she should be in mine still. But they never held her. She should be happy now, now,” she cried with sudden passion, her voice still in soft minors, “not in the future! Why should she have to reach her happiness and her love ‘through much tribulation’? It should come by divine right. She is so strong, she will suffer strongly, she is so strong that when passion comes to her it will tear her, torture her, break her to pieces! Henry, Henry,” she gasped, “we are to blame, we have failed miserably! We never had any right to have children. While we have been worrying over the dry fossils of the past we have allowed the living—the young—to wither around us. Ah, how sad it all is, how sad!” she sighed, “how sad!”