“I’ll come down at once, Olivia,” he said. “Oh, Olivia,” he added, his voice growing tender and moving, “you look so white and worried. I’ll look after Stukeley. Won’t you lie down and rest? It’s much too hot for you in the sun here. And then the excitement.” “Oh, never mind me,” she said hurriedly, almost gaily. “I’m not in the least ill. It’s Tom.” As women sometimes will, in moments of emotion, she acted impulsively, laying her hand on his arm, sending the blood to his temples. “Come on down, then,” he said thickly. “We’ll see. We’ll see your husband.” He glanced over the side again, biting his lips, his face turned away, as she took his arm. In that glance he saw the slip below the battery, with its green piles, barnacled, clucked about by the tides, mounted with tarpaulined cannon. Cammock stood upon the slip end, his gig’s crew, their oars tossed, just below him. Townsmen were talking to him; but he stood unheeding, looking at the _Broken Heart_, waving his hat. Margaret waved his hat in answer, to show that he saw; then, breathing a deep sigh, he led Olivia below. “Why. What makes you sigh like that?” she asked. “Why do I sigh? Captain Cammock was signalling to me. I was afraid we might be quarantined. But it’s all right now. He’s signalled that it’s all right. I’m relieved.” “Charles,” she said, pausing in the alleyway, “I sometimes feel that I’ve given you pain by coming with you like this. Have I?” “No, Olivia,” he answered. “How could you?” “But are you sure? I couldn’t bear to think that I had.” “I am very sure of that, Olivia.” “You aren’t angry with me for asking?” “We’re old friends, you and I, Olivia. Old friends like you and I don’t get angry with each other.” “Some day I hope you’ll marry, Charles. You’d make the right woman very happy.” “Ah no, no. We mustn’t talk of that.” “You will, Charles. You will. And yet it would be sad to see all one’s boy and girl friends married. A woman doesn’t like to feel old.” “Olivia.” “Now come in and see Tom. Do you think there are good doctors here?” The question was earnestly asked. It seemed to Margaret that it took for granted that he knew, that it was the woman’s way of taking him into her confidence, into the dark, locked cupboard, meagrely catalogued without, which is a woman’s confidence. It made a strange jangling of all his strings to hear her. In the dark passage there, with her great eyes looking into his, and the earrings gleaming palely against the hair, she moved him, she shook him out of tune. “Olivia,” he said, stammering. “Olivia. If. When. When your. If you ever have a child, Olivia. Will you let me--let me---- Let me see it often. Be its godfather. Be something to it?” “Yes,” she said softly, pressing the back of his hand quickly. “Yes, Charles. I promise you that.” “You aren’t hurt, Olivia?” “No, Charles. Not hurt.” “God bless you, Olivia.” “Come in to Tom, now,” she said in a low voice. She was moved and touched. They went in.