He pointed to a seat, and sat down by her. The brightness of his look had passed away. The thin, intellectual face and lined brow had resumed the expression that was familiar to Beryl. It was an expression of fatigue--not physical now, for he had clearly recovered his health, but moral; as though the man behind it were worn out by some hidden debate with his own mind, into which he fell perpetually, when left to himself. It was the look which divided him from her. 'Yes,' she said slowly, 'I've been thinking a great deal.' She stopped; then lifting her eyes, which were grey and fringed with dark lashes--beautiful eyes, timid yet passionately honest--she said, 'You'd better give me up, Aubrey!' He made a restless movement, then took her hands and raised them to his lips. 'I don't feel like it!' he said, smiling. 'Tell me what you mean.' She looked down, plucking at the fringed belt of her sports coat. Her lips trembled a little. 'I don't think, Aubrey, I can make you happy! I've been feeling often--that I don't seem to make much difference to you. And now this is very serious--giving up Mannering. _You_ may mind it much more than you think. And if--' 'If what? Go on!' She raised her eyes again and looked at him straight. 'If I can't make up?' The colour flooded into his face, as though, far within, something stirred 'like a guilty thing surprised.' But he said tenderly: 'I don't care _that_, Beryl'--he snapped his fingers--'for Mannering in comparison with you.' Her breath fluttered a little, but she went on resolutely. 'But I must say it--I must tell you what I feel. It seems the right opportunity. So often, Aubrey, I don't seem to understand you! I say the wrong thing. I'm not clever. I haven't any deep thoughts--like you or Arthur. It would be terrible if you married me, and then--I felt you were disappointed.' He moved a little away from her and, propping his chin on his hands, looked gravely through the thinning branches of the wood. 'I wonder why you say that--I wonder what I've done!' 'Oh, you've done nothing!' cried Beryl. 'It's only I feel--sometimes--that--that you don't let me know things--share things. You seem sometimes so sad--and I can't be any help--you won't let me! That's what I mind so much--so dreadfully!' He was silent a moment. Then without any attempt at caresses, he said, 'I wonder, Beryl, whether you--whether you--ever realize--what we soldiers have _seen_? No!--thank God!--you don't--you can't.' She pressed her hands to her eyes, and shuddered. 'No, of course I can't--of course I can't!' she said passionately. Then, while her eyes were still hidden, there passed through his worn features a sharp spasm, as of some uncontrollable anguish--passed and was gone.