He pauses, not for the moment quite equal to bear placing, even in imagination, the _jeune ménage_. Yet he will not spare himself the pain of knowing what corner of the fragrant homely room, that bears the imprint of her and her tastes and occupations, will shelter the warm domestic nearness to each other of husband and wife. “Tell me where you all sit, that, when I am gone, I may picture you.” “That is Uncle George’s chair,” she says, pointing to the one that the young man had rightly assigned to the house’s master; and then stops. “And Rupert’s?” “Rupert has no particular chair.” After a moment, “Rupert always chooses whatever seat he thinks no one else wants; that is Rupert’s theory of life--and his practice.” The tribute seems wrung out of her; yet she makes it, and handsomely too. He gives a little nod of acquiescence, inwardly shocked at his own want of generosity in being able to do no more, yet--inwardly also--writhing at her praise. “And you have lived here always?” “Yes, always; that is, ever since Uncle George picked me out of the gutter.” She gives a forced laugh, and goes on, “You know that when I was a destitute baby he saved me from the workhouse?” “Yes, you told me.” “Your tone says that I have repeated it _ad nauseam_. Well, I have to do it, lest--though you would hardly think such a thing possible--I may forget it. I am very near doing it sometimes.” “I do not believe it.” There is a grit and manliness in his voice that almost contradicts the passion in his eyes--eyes in which, for all their passion, there is room too for a wondering consternation at the metamorphosis wrought in his sweet, calm nurse and comrade. “Shall we go out of doors?” he asks, after a moment or two of burdensome silence. “We have had so few hours out of doors together.” She reads his thought. They will be safer--safer from themselves and from each other--out of doors. It had been her own, and she is almost sure that she had meant to act in accordance with it; yet that it should come from him causes her a dull surprise, painful through all its dulness. “Where would you like to go?” she asks, when they stand together on the garden sward facing the familiar view, the distance clearly azure-blue to-day, but over which, as she has so often triumphantly explained to visitors, a grey mist is apt to lie while her upland is in radiant sunshine. To-day the cases are reversed. Sunshine bathes the distance; it is on her heart that the fog lies thick. “Where would you like to go?” she repeats. “To the Rectory, to bid good-bye to the children?” It is out-Heroding Herod to suggest that their last hour shall be spent in company, and her heart stands still until his answer comes. If it is an assent, all danger will be over, and of that she ought to be glad. But it is not. “Show me some pleasant walk where you often go.”