But, for Nelly Sarratt, Marsworth felt the tender and chivalrous respect that natures like hers exact easily from strong men. To him, as to Farrell, she was the 'little saint' and peacemaker, with her lovingness, her sympathy, her lack of all the normal vanities and alloys that beset the pretty woman. That she was not a strong character, that she was easily influenced and guided by those who touched her affections, he saw. But that kind of weakness in a woman--when that woman also possesses the mysterious something, half physical, half spiritual, which gives delight--is never unpleasing to such men as Marsworth, nor indeed to other women. It was Marsworth's odd misfortune that he should have happened to fall in love with a young woman who had practically none of the qualities that he naturally and spontaneously admired in the sex. It was, however, about that young woman that he had come to talk. For he was well aware of Nelly's growing intimacy with Cicely, and had lately begun to look upon that as his last hope. Yet he was no sooner alone with Nelly than he felt a dim compunction. This timid creature, with her dark haunting eyes, had problems enough of her own to face. He perceived clearly that Farrell's passion for her was mounting fast, and he had little or no idea what kind of response she was likely to make to it. But all the same his own need drove him on. And Nelly, who had scarcely slept all night, caught eagerly at some temporary escape from her own perplexities. 'Dear Mrs. Sarratt!--have you _any_ idea, whether Cicely cares one brass farthing for me, or not?' To such broad and piteous appeal was a gallant officer reduced. Nelly was sorry for him, but could not hide the smile in her eyes, as she surveyed him. 'Have you really asked her?' 'Asked her? Many times!--in the dark ages. It is months, however, since she gave me the smallest chance of doing it again. Everything I do or say appears to annoy her, and of course, naturally, I have relieved her of my presence as much as possible.' Nelly had taken up her knitting. 'If you never come--perhaps--Cicely thinks you are tired of her.' Marsworth groaned. 'Is that her line now? And yet you know--you are witness!--of how she behaves when I do come.' Nelly looked up boldly. 'You mustn't be angry, but--why can't you accept her--as she is--without always wanting her different?' Marsworth flushed slightly. The impressive effect of his fine iron-grey head, and marked features, his scrupulously perfect dress, and general look of competence and ability, was deplorably undone by the signs in him of bewilderment and distress. 'You mean--you think I bully her?--she thinks so?' 'She--she feels--you so dreadfully disapprove of her!' said Nelly, sticking to it, but smiling. 'She regards me as a first-class prig in fact?' 'No--but she thinks you don't always understand.'