On the stroke of seven he mounted the verandah steps. A camp table, set with fruit, freshly made toast, and a tea-tray, awaited him in a shadowed corner. Two thick bamboo blinds, let down between the wide arches, converted that end of the verandah into a room, its low-toned coolness broken only by an arrow of sunlight, shooting through a gap in one of the blinds, like a streak of powdered gold. Wyndham's eyes lingered approvingly on every detail of the homely scene; and he caught himself wondering what his sensations would be half an hour hence; what words he should speak to her when the dreaded, longed-for moment arrived. A light footstep reached his ears; and he turned sharply round to find her standing in the open doorway. She did not come forward at once, nor did she speak. For the man's face was transfigured. She beheld, in that instant, his unveiled heart and spirit--foresaw the ordeal that awaited her. Noting her hesitation, he came forward with unconcealed eagerness. "Good morning," she murmured mechanically. There seemed nothing else that could be said. Then a wave of colour surged into her face; for he kept the hand she gave him, and drew her towards the privacy of the tea-table. She would have sacrificed much at that moment for the power to speak to prevent the pain she was bound to inflict; but her heart seemed to be beating in her throat; and she endured, as best she might, the controlled intensity of his look and tone. "You know--surely you know what I find it so hard to say--I love you,--Honor, with all there is of me. I want you--God knows how I want you! And--you----?" He bent his head to receive the answer that need not be spoken in words. But all vestige of colour was gone from her face, and the unsteadiness of her beautiful mouth cut him to the heart. "Oh, forgive me!" she pleaded. "I have been thoughtless, selfish,--blind. But you seemed so entirely my friend--I did not guess. I would have given the world to have spared you--_this_." He straightened himself like a man under the lash; but he did not relinquish her hand. "I can't let you reproach yourself," he said quietly, "because I misunderstood signs that seemed to tell me your heart was awake at last. But now--now you know how it is with me, at least you will let me hope----?" "I wish I might," she answered, so low that he could scarcely hear. "But--it's impossible!" "Am I so entirely unworthy--unlovable?" "No, oh no. It is not that." "D'you mean--I was not mistaken. Is there--any one else?" "Yes." It was impossible to lie to him, and the blood rushed back into her face at the confession. "Is he _here_?" Paul demanded, with sudden energy. "You mustn't ask any questions about--him--about it, please." "Only this one. Shall you--marry him?" "No. Never." Sheer incredulity held him silent; and when he spoke there was rebellion in his tone. "Your life and my own are to remain broken, unfulfilled, because of--this incomprehensible thing?"