But she could not return his gaze of loving, devotion, could not meet his honest eyes, bright with pleasure at her improved and spirits. For, with returning strength, and powers of self-control, a new misery had come upon her—the growing consciousness of how grievously, though unintentionally, she had deceived Geoffrey Baldwin when she told him that at least what heart was left her was free to give to him, that the old love was dead, “dead and buried for ever.” In the first selfishness of her overpowering wretchedness this feeling had somewhat fallen into the background: now that her powers were regaining their balance it revived with redoubled force. It was agony to her to receive Geoffrey’s constant expressions of trusting, almost reverential love. A hundred times she had it on her lips to confess to him, not the whole, but so much of her secret as she felt it due to him to own. Only the thought of what this knowledge would be to him, of his happiness wrecked as well as her own, withheld her. But she felt that before long it must come. Whatever misery it might entail, it must be done; for she could not live with him feeling that systematically and deliberately she was deceiving him. She grew strangely silent, and absent in manner. Geoffrey feared she was growing ill again, and hastened their return home. “Once in our own house, dear, with all home comforts about you, you’ll feel so different,” he said; “this constant travelling is really very tiring. No wonder you’re done up. How delightful it will be to see you at the old farm I shall then feel quite sure that you really belong to me, my dearest.” She did not answer. He drew round her averted face. To his amazement she was in tears. “Marion,” he exclaimed in astonishment, “my dearest, what is the matter?” She seized his hand convulsively and held it fast. Then restraining with difficulty the hysterical weeping which she felt coming upon her, she spoke, fast and excitedly, to her bewildered listener.