"Yes, it _is_ true," said Janey slowly, and she became very pale. Then she added, with difficulty, "I knew--we all knew--that Dick had had some one--a woman--with him at Fontainebleau when he was taken ill. His valet told my aunt he had not gone--alone. And the hotel-keeper told her the same. She ran away when Aunt Jane arrived. Aunt Jane never saw her. We never knew who she was." "Till now," said Mr. Stirling softly. Two long-winged baby-swallows were sitting on their breasts on the sunny flagged path, resting, turning their sleek heads to right and left. Mr. Stirling watched them intently. "Why should anyone but you and I ever know?" he said, with a sigh, after they had flown. He had waited, hoping Janey would say those words, but he had had to say them himself instead. She did not answer. She could not. A pulse in her throat was choking her. This, then, was what he had come for, to persuade her to be silent, to hush it up. All men were the same about a pretty woman. A great tumult clamoured within her, but she made no movement. "I may as well mention that I am interested in Miss Georges," he went on quietly. "Don't you find that rather ridiculous, Miss Manvers? An elderly man of fifty, old enough to be her father. It is quite absurd, and very undignified, isn't it? You are much too courteous to agree with me. But I can see you think it is so, whether you agree or not. Wise women often justly accuse us silly susceptible men of being caught by a pretty face. I have been caught by a sweet face. I never exchanged a word with Miss Georges till yesterday, so I have not had the chance of being attracted by her mind. And it is not her mind that draws me, it is her face. I have known her by sight for some time. I go to church in order to see her. I called on her two aunts solely in order to make her acquaintance. The elder one, the portentous authoress, is the kind of person whom I should creep down a sewer to avoid; even the saintly invalid does not call out my higher nature." Mr. Stirling became aware that Janey was lost in amazement. Irony is singularly unsuited to a narrow outlook. He waited a moment, and then went on, choosing his words carefully, as if he were speaking to some one very young-- "It is quite a different thing to be attracted, and to have any hope of marriage, isn't it? I have, and had, no thought of marrying Miss Georges. I am aware that I could not achieve it. Men of my age do not exist for women of her age. But that does not prevent my having a deep desire to serve her. And service is the greater part of love, isn't it? I am sure _you_ know that, whose life is made up of service of others." "I am not sure I do," she said stiffly. She was steeling herself against him. If he found her difficult, he gave no sign of it. He went on tranquilly--