He was learning about Phil from the last person in the world who had any right to know Phil. He had seen in her precociousness, her healthy delight in books, nothing astonishing, and he had known nothing of her scribbling. His irritation grew. He was impatient to escape from this garden that Holton had spoken of as Kirkwood's graveyard; from this cheerful ghost beside him, with her low, musical voice and her murmurous laughter. His thoughts flew to Nan, to whom he now meant to go with his last appeal. It flashed upon him that he might assure his victory over Nan's qualms by carrying to her the definite knowledge that there was absolutely no hope, as he fancied Nan believed there was, that he and Lois might bridge the wide chasm that had separated them for so many years and renew the old tie. If he could go from Lois to Nan with that news, he believed his case would be invincible. He would make the offer to Lois now, on this spot whose associations might be supposed to create an atmosphere of sentiment favorable to its serious consideration. The interview had run into a dead wall. Quite imaginably his proximity had begun to bore Lois. He idled with his stick, pondering. She rose suddenly. "I must go back; Phil won't know what's become of me." "Perhaps it would be as well to tell her that we've met," he said. "In fact, I think she should know." "I prefer not," she answered with decision. "It might trouble her; she might think--she thinks of everything!" "Lois, there are ways--important ones--in which it would be best for her, make her happier, if we could--try again!" She raised her hand with one of her quick gestures, and it rested for an instant on his arm. As she lifted her face he saw the tears bright in her eyes. "Don't say it; don't think of it!" she whispered brokenly. "For Phil's sake we ought to do it if we can," he persisted, surprised to find how unmoved he was. "For Phil's sake we wouldn't if we could!" Their gaze met searchingly. "It would be doing Phil a terrible wrong!" "I don't understand; I can't follow that," he answered. And still unmoved, untouched, he saw grief and fear in her eyes, her face twitching with the pain of inner conflict. "No; you don't understand!" she cried softly. "But if you meant it--if we either of us cared any more, don't you see that it wouldn't do! Don't you know how unjust--how horribly unjust it would be to her, to--to lead her to think that Love could be like that; something to be taken on and put off? It would be an unholy thing! It would be a sacrilege! No one would be deceived by it; and Phil would know we both lied!" "But we might work it out some way; with her to help it might not go badly. I would do my best! I promise you that," he said, more sincere than he had meant to be. She was greatly moved and he wondered where emotion might lead her. He was alertly watchful for any quick thrust that might find him off guard. She went on hurriedly.