It was here the two were walking on the eve of Mr. Heriot’s funeral. The gate of the old house was still standing, ornamented with the cognizance of the Heriots, at the end of the avenue, and here there was still an exit upon the cliff; close to it was the door of the kitchen-garden. I explain this to show how the circumstances, which were about to happen, came to pass. Marjory had walked up and down the avenue three or four times--leaning on Fanshawe’s arm. It had become natural to accept his arm, to take both physical and moral support from him. I do not know that either of them had ever gone further in their imaginations; Marjory, at least, had not. She had no time for any thoughts about herself. Ever since she had known Fanshawe, she had been absorbed in matters of a very different kind. She took his support, his kindness, his sympathy, almost, I fear, as a matter of course, forgetting that she had no right to it; not entering into the question at all; accepting the help which was at hand without questioning what it was. And Fanshawe, for his part, thought badly of himself when other thoughts would gleam across his mind by turns. He shook himself, as it were, and was angry, asking himself, “Is this the time?--am I the sort of fellow?” He was as far from contemplating marriage as a possibility as any good-for-nothing could be. Marriage! out of Marjory’s presence how he would have laughed at the idea! But still there had been gleams of light which had passed across him, fitful glimpses of meaning, even of a kind of purpose, repressed instantly by a conviction of their utter vanity and foolishness. Sometimes, unawares, when he was thinking of other things, some sudden plan would come into his head, some vision would flit before his eyes; but they were always involuntary. He had not even recognised them so far as to struggle against them. They were stray visitants that came upon him without a moment’s notice unawares, and that were driven away as intruders, without a moment’s indulgence. But sometimes along with these visions, strange words would throw themselves in his way, and claim so urgently to be spoken, that it was very hard to resist them. This was one of those occasions. In answer to her languid words, “You know I cannot talk,” some devil or other (he thought) thrust a passionate, too expressive answer into his mind. And he had, so to speak, to stoop and pick it up, and throw it from him like a firebrand, before he could continue the calm conversation in which they had been engaged. “You are getting tired, I think,” he said, anxiously. “Come and sit down here.” “I am not tired,” said Marjory. “It is wrong to think that because the mind is worn out the body must be tired too. Does it not sometimes seem all the stronger? I think it would be best to be ill; but as I am not ill, what can I do? I can’t pretend. I am not tired, except of doing nothing, of being cooped up, of being good for nothing--”