"It was my father. He made me read and think; and when he died all the money went, and my mother is poor. Oh, Michael, don't be so flinty! Say you forgive me before I go! It all began in a joke!" "Began. Yes. But why did you go on?" "Because I--I didn't like Sylvia--and I liked you--rather--but I won't be a nuisance. I'll go back to mother. Say you forgive me. I'll go by the first train in the morning." "The first train," said Michael absently, "is the 9.17; but to-morrow is Christmas Day--I daresay they'll run the same as on Sunday." She took her white cloak from the settle by the fire. "Good night," she said sadly; "you are very hard. Won't you even shake hands?" "We had no roses at our wedding," he said, still absently; "but there are roses at Christmas." He raised his hand to the white flowers she wore, and touched them softly. "White roses, too, for a wedding," he said. "Good night!" she said again. "And you will go to your mother to-morrow by the 9.17 train, or the 10.5, if the trains run the same as on Sunday. And I am to forgive you, and shake hands before we part. Well, well!" He took the hand she held out, caught the other, and stood holding them, his grey eyes seeking hers. Her head thrown back, her hands stretched out, she looked at him from arm's length. "Dear!" he said. A mute glance questioned him. Then lashes longer than Sylvia's veiled the dark eyes. He spoke again. "Dear!" "You know you hate me," she said. He raised her hands to his lips. "Have you forgotten Sylvia?" "Absolutely, thank God! And you--I--after all, we are married, though there were no roses at our June wedding." Again her eyes questioned mutely. He leaned forward and touched the Christmas roses with his lips. Then he dropped her hands and caught her by the shoulders. "Oh! foolish, foolish, foolish people!" he said. "We two are man and wife. My wife! my wife! my wife! We are, aren't we?" "I suppose we are," she said, and her face leaned a little towards his. "Well, then!" said he. X THE HOUSE OF SILENCE The thief stood close under the high wall, and looked to right and left. To the right the road wound white and sinuous, lying like a twisted ribbon over the broad grey shoulder of the hill; to the left the road turned sharply down towards the river; beyond the ford the road went away slowly in a curve, prolonged for miles through the green marshes. No least black fly of a figure stirred on it. There were no travellers at such an hour on such a road. The thief looked across the valley, at the top of the mountain flushed with sunset, and at the grey-green of the olives about its base. The terraces of olives were already dusk with twilight, but his keen eyes could not have missed the smallest variance or shifting of their lights and shadows. Nothing stirred there. He was alone.