She lifted her head in the haughty way he dreaded. "I will not endure suspicions," she said clearly, but she flushed at her own words, for she remembered that she had been willing to give Zebedee the lesser tokens of her love, and it was only by his sternness that she could look George in the eyes. Zebedee would have taken her boldly and completely, believing his action justified, but he would have no little secret dealings, and she was abashed by the realization of her willingness to deceive. She was the nearer to George by that discovery, and the one shame made her readier to suffer more. "It's because I want you," he said, shading his eyes; and for the first time she had no resentment for his desires. "Oh, George, don't you think you had better go home?" she said. "Why?" he asked her. "Because--because I want to read." "Well, I can watch you." "And you won't think it rude?" He shook his head. There was a rare joy in sitting within reach of her and honouring her with his restraint. Her slim feet were crossed on the dog's back, and she hardly stirred except to turn a page: the firelight threw colours on her dress, behind her there was a dark dresser where china gleamed, and sitting there, she made a little picture of home for a man who could remember none but hired women in his house. "I wish you'd talk to me," he said, and at once she shut her book with a charming air of willingness. "Do you know what you've been reading about?" he dared to ask her slyly, for surely she had been conscious of his thoughts of her. She would not be fluttered. "Yes. Shall I tell you?" "No," he said. Her voice was influenced by the quick beating of her heart. "Do you never read anything?" "I gave it up long ago." "Why? What did you do at night before you--" "Before I married you? I used to smoke and wish it was time to go to bed, and look at the newspaper sometimes." "That must have been very dull." "I used to watch the clock," he said. He leaned towards her and spoke quickly, softly. "And I watch it still! From waking till dusk I watch it and think of you, sitting and waiting for me. Oh, what's the good of talking to me of books? You're here--and you're my wife, and I'll talk to you of nothing but yourself." He knelt, and his hands were on her waist. "Yourself--my beauty--my little saint--your little hands and feet--your cheeks I want to kiss--your hair--" He drew her to his breast and whispered, "How long is it--your hair?" There was no resistance in her, and her neck could not hold up the head that drooped over his shoulder when he kissed her ear and spoke in it. "Helen--Helen--I love you. Tell me you love me. You've got to kiss me--Yes--" She answered in a quiet voice, but she stopped for breath between the words. "I think--there's some one--in the hall. It must be John." Reluctantly he loosed her, and she left him quickly for the dark passage which covered and yet cooled her as she called out, "John! Is that you?"