"No. It is not that. But there is a difference. Hurting _her_--she would not understand. But you--somehow it seems a natural thing for me to come to you. I seem to look to you--For her I am always making allowances--" "You love her." "I wonder if it _is_ that makes the difference. Things are so complex. Love means anything--or nothing. I know you better than I do her, you know me better than she will ever do. I could tell you things I could not tell her. I could put all myself before you--almost--and know you would understand--Only--" "You love her." "Yes," said Lewisham lamely and pulling at his moustache. "I suppose ... that must be it." For a space neither spoke. Then Miss Heydinger said "_Oh_!" with extraordinary emphasis. "To think of this end to it all! That all your promise ... What is it she gives that I could not have given? "Even now! Why should I give up that much of you that is mine? If she could take it--But she cannot take it. If I let you go--you will do nothing. All this ambition, all these interests will dwindle and die, and she will not mind. She will not understand. She will think that she still has you. Why should she covet what she cannot possess? Why should she be given the thing that is mine--to throw aside?" She did not look at Lewisham, but before her, her face a white misery. "In a way--I had come to think of you as something, belonging to me ... I shall--still." "There is one thing," said Lewisham after a pause, "it is a thing that has come to me once or twice lately. Don't you think that perhaps you over-estimate the things I might have done? I know we've talked of great things to do. But I've been struggling for half a year and more to get the sort of living almost anyone seems able to get. It has taken me all my time. One can't help thinking after that, perhaps the world is a stiffer sort of affair ..." "No," she said decisively. "You could have done great things. "Even now," she said, "you may do great things--If only I might see you sometimes, write to you sometimes--You are so capable and--weak. You must have somebody--That is your weakness. You fail in your belief. You must have support and belief--unstinted support and belief. Why could I not be that to you? It is all I want to be. At least--all I want to be now. Why need she know? It robs her of nothing. I want nothing--she has. But I know of my own strength too I can do nothing. I know that with you ... It is only knowing hurts her. Why should she know?" Mr. Lewisham looked at her doubtfully. That phantom greatness of his, it was that lit her eyes. In that instant at least he had no doubts of the possibility of his Career. But he knew that in some way the secret of his greatness and this admiration went together. Conceivably they were one and indivisible. Why indeed need Ethel know? His imagination ran over the things that might be done, the things that might happen, and touched swiftly upon complication, confusion, discovery.