But she was not in the room yet. So he stood watching the door, and wondering what could be the meaning of this conduct, which would have been singular on the part of any girl, but was most singular in his eyes when it was the conduct of Madge. A headache was _not_ a sufficient explanation of that frightened look on her face, and it was still less a satisfactory explanation of her eager desire to get away from him, when he had expected to be chidden for his long absence. What could have happened, to account for it? In all this wondering and questioning there was not the remotest shade of jealousy. He loved her. She loved him; he trusted her absolutely. His was the nature which gives absolute trust, and is incapable of thinking that it might be betrayed. But this absolute trust is in a keen-eyed, passionate nature a sort of windbag; and with the first pin-prick of suspicion it collapses: all trust changes to all doubt. He was still untouched by this demon. So he only wondered, and was sorry for her. Then she came in, looking so pale—haggard almost—and quite unlike herself. She had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had been crying. She closed the door, held out her hands to him, avoiding his eyes, and rested her head on his shoulder. That was all right: she was not angry with him. He kissed the wet eyes gratefully, and the lips. But she did not look at him or speak; and although he wanted to say something soothing, he did not know how to begin. Presently he was startled by a low sobbing, and words came to him: ‘For goodness’ sake, Madge, tell me what is the meaning of all this. Have I done anything to vex you?’ She pressed his hands, to assure him that he had not; but she did not speak. ‘Then what is it, my poor Madge? What can have upset you in this way? Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy are all right: I am all right; but I shall be all wrong in a minute, if you will not show me how I am to make you all right, like the rest of us.’ She raised her head slowly, wiped her eyes, and went to a chair by the fire. No smile, no sign of relief, but a frown at the laughing flame which rose from the burning log of wood. (That was one of Madge’s own conceits, to have a homely log of wood for the evening fires.) Suddenly she lay back on the chair with hands clasped on the top of her head. ‘I don’t know what to say to you, Philip.’ ‘What about?’ ‘About being so foolish.’ ‘Tell me why you are so foolish, and then maybe some good fairy will help me to tell you what you ought to say.’ He rested his elbow on the back of her chair and passed his hand tenderly over her hot brow. Her lips tightened, then relaxed, and she seemed to be on the point of crying again. With an effort, she overcame this hysterical emotion. ‘Sit down, Philip, there, where I can see your face,’ she said; and the voice was steady, although there were pauses between some of the words. ‘Will that do?’