“I cannot tell you, my dearest. I dare not even advise you,” she said. Suddenly an idea occurred to her, “How would you like the idea of laying it all before the chief person concerned, Geoffrey himself? He is not usually very thoughtful or deliberate, and in the present case it seems too much to expect that he should be so. But he is very honest and conscientious, and I believe, though the question is one of vital interest for himself, he is capable of looking at it from your side too. However it may be, I see no other course before you. Tell him what you feel you can give him, and leave it to him to decide.” “Yes,” said Marion, thoughtfully, “I think I will do as you say.” And then they were silent for a time, and when they talked again it was of perfectly different things. The next morning was Geoffrey came, as was now his daily habit, to spend an hour in two with his friends, he found Marion alone; Miss Temple being later than usual in taking her place for the day on the invalid couch where her life was spent. Mr. Baldwin looked round nervously; he was pleased and yet half alarmed at finding himself alone with his ward; for the first time almost, since the memorable February afternoon when he had broken his promise to Veronica. Marion was sitting working, as calmly as possible. She was in no hurry to hasten the inevitable explanation. Now that she had made up her mind what to do, she was perfectly content to leave in Mr. Baldwin’s hands, the when and where of the dénouement. So she stitched away composedly. Geoffrey sat down and looked at her for a few minutes, made, after the manner of people in such circumstances, some particularly stupid remark the weather, and then began to fidget. At last he plunged in, head foremost. “Miss Vere,” he said, “would you mind putting down your work for a few minutes and listening to something I have got to say?” Miss Vere did as she was requested, and Geoffrey continued. “I did not think that day that—that you were angry with me, I did not think then that I could ever bring myself to risk your anger again. But it is no use. It is worse than ever with me—this wretchedness of being near you and yet to know it is all hopeless. What I want to say to you is that I cannot stand it. Your illness was so terrible to me; it showed me even more clearly than before how insane I am about it. I can’t stay near you in this way, Marion. Humbugging about friendship and all that, when I know that twenty million friendships would not express a particle of my utter devotion to you. I can’t, say it, well. I am abominably stupid and boorish. Only I want to tell you that I must go away. I shall look after your interests to very best of my power; only have some mercy on me, and don’t try me in this terrible way by asking me to stay near you.”