She shuddered at the recollection of her dream, clasping her hands before her face, as if to shut out some hideous sight. ‘You ought not to read such poetry,’ said Edgar, deeply concerned. ‘How can people let you have such books?’ ‘Oh, there is no harm in the book. You know I adore poetry. Directly I was able to write a German exercise, I got hold of Heine, and began to spell out his verses. They are so sweet, so mournful, so full of a patient despair.’ ‘You have too much imagination,’ said Edgar. ‘You ought to read sober solid prose.’ ‘“Blair’s Lectures,” “Sturm’s Reflections,” “Locke on the Understanding,”’ retorted Daphne, laughing. ‘No; I like books that take me out of myself and into another world.’ ‘But if they only take you into charnel-houses, among ghosts and dead people, I don’t see the advantage of that.’ ‘Don’t you? There are times when anything is better than one’s own thoughts.’ ‘Why should you shrink from thought?’ asked Edgar tenderly. ‘You can have nothing painful to remember or think about; unless,’ he added, seeing an opening, ‘you feel remorseful for having been so cruel to me.’ He had drawn his chair close to hers in the firelight—the ruddy, comfortable light which folded them round like a rosy cloud. She sat far back in her downy nest, almost buried in its soft depths, her eyes gazing dreamily at the fire, her sunny hair glittering in the fitful light. If she had been looking him full in the face, in broad day, Edgar Turchill could hardly have been so bold. ‘I did feel very sorry, last night, when you were so good to me,’ she said slowly. ‘Good to you! Why, I did nothing!’ ‘You are so loyal and good. I saw it all last night, as if your heart had suddenly been spread open before me like a book. I think I read you plainly last night for the first time. You are faithful and true; a gentleman to the core of your heart. All men ought to be like that: but they are not.’ ‘You can have had very little experience of their shortcomings,’ said Edgar, his heart glowing at her praise. And then, emboldened, and yet full of fear, he hastened to take advantage of her humour. ‘If you can trust me; if you think me in the slightest measure worthy of these sweet words, which might be a much better man’s crown of bliss, why will you not make me completely happy? I love you so truly, so dearly, that, if to have an honest man for your slave can help to make your life pleasant, you had better take me. I know that I am not worthy of you, that you are as high above me in intellect, and grace, and beauty, as the stars are in their mystery and splendour; but a more brilliant man might not be quite so ready to mould himself according to your will, to sink his own identity in yours, to be your very slave, in fact; to have no purpose except to obey you.’ ‘Don’t!’ cried Daphne. ‘If you were my husband, I should like you to make me obey. I am not such a fool as to want a slave.’