‘There you are wrong. I have never crossed the threshold of her present abode. On the very day you left Stillmington she told me in the plainest words, but with a gentleness that made even unkind words seem sweet, that she could receive no farther visits from me. “You have been very good,” she said, “and in the hour of trouble such friendship as you have shown to me is very precious. But now the danger is past I can only return to my old position. It is my destiny to live quite alone; pray do not try to come between me and Fate.”’ ‘You pleaded against this decision, I suppose?’ ‘With all the force of the truest passion that man ever felt. I think I was almost eloquent, Lucius, for at the last she burst into tears; she entreated me to desist, told me that I was too hard upon her, that I tempted her too cruelly. How could I tempt her if she did not care a straw for me? These ambiguous phrases fanned the flame of hope. I left her at her command, which I dared not disobey; but I stayed in Stillmington.’ ‘You have stayed on all this time and seen no more of her?’ ‘_Pas si bête._ No, I have seen her and talked to her now and then. She is obliged to give her child an airing every fine afternoon. She has no maid here, and the mother and child walk out together. Sometimes, but not too often, for that would seem like persecution, I contrive to meet them, and join them in their ramble in one of the long avenues or across a breezy common; and then, Lucius, for a little while I am in Paradise. We talk of all manner of things; of life and its many problems, of literature, art, nature, religion, and its deepest mysteries; but of her past life she never speaks, nor of her dead husband. I have studiously refrained from any word that might seem to pry into her secrets, and every hour I have spent with her has served but to increase my love and honour for her.’ ‘You have again asked her to be your wife?’ ‘Over and over again, and she has refused with the same steadfast persistence, with a constancy of purpose that knows no change. And yet, Lucius, I believe she loves me. I am neither such a blockhead nor such a scoundrel as to pursue any woman to whom I was an object of dislike, or even of indifference. But I see her face light up when we meet; I hear the sweet tremulous tones of her voice when she speaks of the love she refuses to grant me. No, Lucius, there is no indifference, there is no obstinate coldness there. God only knows the reason which keeps us asunder, but to me it is an inexorable mystery.’ ‘And you have sent for me only to tell me this. In your letter you spoke of my helping you. How can any help of mine aid you here?’