He went back into the house and into his room, and set about preparing for himself a cup of coffee. He very often did that in the early morning, before anyone was about. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was not quite six. He was bending over the little spirit stove, when he suddenly drew himself upright and listened; for there was a sound of little feet upon the stair. The sound drew nearer, while he listened a little guiltily. Then the door was pushed open, and Moira came in; and for a moment the man and the child looked deep into each other's souls. "Hullo, Moira!" said Paul at last. "You're up early." She did not reply; she walked across to him, and put up her face for a kiss. He did not dare even to whisper a question as to the previous night; he was casting about in his mind for the best thing to say under these tragic circumstances. The pride of the child forbade that she should even breathe the name of her rival; so that each waited and wondered what was best to be said. Had the simple Paul but known, however, Moira had already made up her mind what to do with him; had been thinking it out during the night. Paul was sipping his coffee, and furtively glancing at the child, when he saw that she was about to speak. She was leaning against him, and his arm encircled her; almost he could feel her thin young body quiver with the eagerness of the question, although she spoke quietly enough. "Old Paul--what do you do when you love anybody?" "Do?" Paul set down his cup, and twisted the child about, the better to look into her eyes. "Oh, you just--just love 'em," he replied feebly. "Oh!" The child lowered her eyes, and seemed to be pondering deeply. Finally she spoke, tracing a vein on the back of the man's hand with one finger as she said the words, and looking down at that finger. "Patience says that sometimes, when you're in that state, you elope." "Patience seems to know a lot about it," said Paul. "Look here, old lady--what are you driving at? We're quite alone, you know--and I'll never breathe a word about it." "Patience says that sometimes there's somebody in the way--'somebody who stands between,' was what she said; and in that case you steal out quietly, and you rush away, and you never get caught. At least, that is, in the best eloping cases," she added, thoughtfully. "And you only do that when somebody stands between?" whispered Paul. "Somebody, for instance, who is a little bit in the way?" She did not look up at him; she only nodded quickly. As he looked at her, he saw a bright drop fall on his hand, but he was too wise to say anything; he went on in an unaltered tone: "Someone, for instance, who would take--shall we say _me_, for argument?--away for a time; that is, of course, if they could. But, dear"--he drew her a little closer to him--"I don't really want to go."