"Three minutes," answered Serge, "and I'll go with you." He turned to Annie. "I've found work for you as soon as you're ready. A friend of mine has a farm six miles away. He lives with his sister and he wants an assistant housekeeper." Annie had never taken her eyes from him since he had come into the room. Her eyes now filled with tears, and her hands made a touching little gesture, almost imperceptible, of gratitude towards him. Serge went on: "He's not a rich man, but he'll pay you enough, so that you can feel independent and always be putting by a little." Annie found her voice but she remained inarticulate. Francis was curiously relieved when Serge rose to go. He held out his hand to her. She took it in both hers and said: "I know. I must have made you very unhappy. You have been very good to me." "Not at all. Not at all," said Francis huskily. She turned to Serge: "You'll come again? It won't be long now." "Next Saturday." "It might be before then." "I'll come on Monday." "Thank you." Francis found his way out into the garden. Through the window he saw Serge take the girl into his arms and kiss her. More than ever he felt that he had been impertinent. The sun was setting and the mist had almost cleared as Serge joined him. In the west the sky was crimson, straked with indigo clouds. Serge took his father's arm and said: "We owe a good deal to that young woman, you and I." "Yes," replied Francis doubtfully. "It seemed to me that she is more than a little in love with you." "I hope so." "Isn't that a little dangerous?" Francis felt very bold in making this excursion into psychology, but the pressure of Serge's hand on his arm reassured him. "My dear father," came the reply, "for thirty years you have been paid for teaching people that the only safety of our little existence here on earth lies in love. I can imagine nothing more awful and disappointing than for a woman to go through the process of childbirth without being in love. It is dreadful enough to live from moment to moment without being in love, but to pass through a great natural crisis without it would be devastating. If she weren't in love with me I couldn't have touched her heart. I could only have appealed to her intelligence, which would have been quite useless. It seemed to me vitally important that she should be made happy, so that through happiness she could understand and feel she was doing no injury to any one, but was performing the ultimate service which a woman is privileged to perform for only a few human beings, namely, the gift of life. She has understood and felt that." "But she is in love with you!" "Why this terror of love? Love, like everything else, becomes a bad thing if it is used selfishly. I ask nothing of her. She knows that. She will love her child the more because of her love for me, and by her greater love she will win the love of the child. . . ." "But . . ." said Francis. "What now?"