"It is subversive--it is final," was the short reply, and a flame of anger against her shot up within him. "Why did she come here to torture him? What had possessed her to come and stand here in his room, in the sunlight, stand here amongst all his most cherished belongings, just as in some of his mad dreams, he had pictured she might stand--looking so fair, so young, so sweet? Why had she done it? It was cruel, not just to a man who was trying to follow his code of honour, to its bitterest consequences." So his thoughts ran, whilst Cicely still stood there, moving her hands over the knob of her sunshade, the little smile still hovering upon her lips. "I wonder," she said slowly, after a moment's silence--and Fergusson, watching her intently, saw that a deeper colour crept into her face--"I wonder--whether--the burning--is--really necessary?" "Quite necessary." His tone was abrupt to the point of rudeness. "I have made up my mind." "And--you--never--change--your mind?" She shot one swift glance at him from her pretty eyes, lowering them again instantly, whilst her hands moved more nervously, and her voice shook. "Not when I am sure I am acting rightly," he answered. "And in this case I have no doubts." She was silent again, for what seemed to the man who watched her many, many minutes, though only a few seconds had ticked by, before she said gently-- "I wonder--why you--are so very sure?" "Because there is no room for doubt," was the terse response, and again there was silence, until Cicely said softly-- "I--think you are wrong. I--believe there is great room for doubt." "Why do you say that?" he exclaimed, that almost rough note in his voice again. "How can you tell, how can you know, what I----" He broke off with significant abruptness, and Cicely moved a few steps nearer to him. "Dr. Fergusson," she said, her voice very low, her words hurried. "I don't know--how to explain--what makes me say--that I am sure you are wrong to--to burn your boats. I--came this morning--on purpose to tell you----" "To tell me what?" he questioned, his own voice more gentle, because of the nervousness in hers. "To tell you--you are--wrong to give up your work here, and go away." "Wrong? Why?" For the life of him, Fergusson could not utter another syllable; he could only stand and stare and stare at the bent golden head, wishing desperately that she would go away, before he was conquered by his overmastering desire to seize her hands in his, and draw her close against his breast. "Quite, quite wrong," she answered firmly, lifting her eyes again, and looking into his face; "you mustn't go away. I came this morning--to tell you--that you mustn't go away. Baba and I--can't spare you." The last words were spoken so softly as to be almost inaudible; but they reached Fergusson's ears, and he looked at the speaker, as though he could hardly believe the evidence of his senses. "Baba--and--you?" he repeated.