There he stood speechless, in the pale slanting light, knowing that the effect must be almost theatrical. And she, sitting where it was darker, could see that his eyes glistened through tears. Much moved, she went up to him; she took his hand, and made him sit down by her side. "Speak Bertie, have I vexed you? Can you not tell me?" But again he shook his head, with that faint smile. And at last he said huskily: "No, Eva, I am not vexed. I can be vexed no more. But I am very, very sad because we must so soon part, and I care for you so much--" "Part! Why? Where are you going?" "Indeed, I do not myself know that, sweet girl. I shall remain till you are married, and then I must go, to wander hither and thither quite alone. Will you sometimes think of me, I wonder?" "But why do you not stay in London?" He looked at her. He had begun this conversation without knowing whither it might lead him, abandoning himself to chance. But now, with this look which her eyes met in response, there suddenly blazed up in him a little diabolical flame. He knew now what he was driving at; he weighed every word he uttered as if they were grains of gold; he felt himself very lucid, very logical and calm, free from the painful, incoherent agitation of the last few minutes. And he spoke very slowly, in a mournful, hollow voice like a sick man: "In London! No, Eva, I cannot remain here." "Why not?" "I cannot, dear girl. I cannot, not with any decency. It is impossible." The hypocrisy of his eye, the languor of his tone, his assumption of inconsolable grief, distilled into her mind a vague suspicion like an insidious poison--the suspicion that it was on her account that he could not remain in London, because he would have to meet her as his friend's wife. It was no more than a suggestion. The wordless despair which seemed to exhale from him inspired the inference. But her mind rebelled against it; it was a mere suspicion and groundless. He went on, still very slowly, considering every word as if with mathematical accuracy. "And when I am gone and you are left with Frank, always with him, will you be happy, Eva?" "Why, Bertie?" She paused. It would be almost cruel to say "Yes," in the security of her happiness, in the face of his pain. "Why do you ask?" she said, almost timidly. He gazed into her face with the deep, soft, misty blackness of his fine eyes. Then he bent his head, and they filled with tears, and he clutched his hands as if they were cold. "Why--why?" Eva insisted. "Nothing, nothing. Promise me that you will be happy. For if you were not happy I should be heart-broken." "What should hinder my being happy; I love Frank so dearly?" she exclaimed, though still fearing lest she should hurt his feelings. "Yes; and so long as you are happy all is well," he murmured low, still rubbing his hands. Then, on a sudden, while her inquiring gaze still rested on his face, he said: "Poor child!" "What--why poor child?" she asked in dismay.