He did not offer to draw forward the only chair, but stood in silence while one could count twenty. By this time he had recovered his usual self-possession, and could speak to her without a quiver in his voice. “You have been ill,” he said, gently. “You are ill and weak still, too unwell to--to come here. Why did you come?” She sank into the chair, and looked up at him, leaning her arms on the table and clasping her hands. There was entreaty, and yet a touch of firmness and resolution in her attitude and her face. “Yes, I have been ill,” she said. “I think I have been very near death. I tell you this that you may know why I have not sent a message to you, why I have not come.” He fought hard against the thrill of joy which ran through him, and, keeping his eyes closely guarded, as it were, responded: “Why should you send to me? I--I have no claim upon you.” “Have you not?” she said at once, her eyes fixed on his with the light of a woman’s truth and devotion shining in their depths. “Are you not in trouble?” “Yes,” he assented, “in great trouble, God knows!” “And did you not offer me your friendship, did you not insist upon my accepting it--for Bertie’s sake?” “For Bertie’s sake, yes,” he said in a low voice. “It was a promise I made him, and I would have kept it; but I am no longer capable of keeping it. No one’s friendship could be more valueless--or dangerous--than mine.” “Because you are in trouble,” she said, and her eyes glowed upon him with tender indignation. “Because you cannot help me, you think that I do not care for your friendship. It was to be all one-sided. Is that it? I was to use you when I wanted you, to come to you for help and advice as to a true and firm friend; and then--when you were in trouble I was to desert and turn my back on you!” He hung his head, and sighed. “Mr. Faradeane, your experience of women must have been unfortunate!” He looked up, as if her words had cut deeper than she had intended. “You are right, Miss Vanley,” he said, so gravely and sadly that she uttered a little cry of dismay and remorse. “Ah, what have I said?” she murmured. “Nothing, nothing!” he replied, quickly, soothingly. “Nothing you could say would wound me. But--forgive me!--I know the kindness of heart which prompted you to pay me this visit; but was it wise? Your father----” “He does not know that I have come. But I should not care if he did.” She spoke calmly and resolutely. “I am not ashamed of standing by a friend when all the world is against him.” He shook his head as he looked down at her tenderly, reverentially.