She took a little handkerchief out from the folds in her coat, then put it back again, apparently with no purpose. "I thought you had something to tell me?" "I?" "Yes; you said when you came up to the table that you had." "That? Oh yes, that's business. We'll talk about that later. I want to hear something about yourself first. You're engaged to be married." He rushed blindly at that--knew nothing about it. A ring on her finger had suggested the thought, but whether it were on the proper finger or not was beyond his knowledge of such little details. "What makes you think that?" she asked. "The ring on the finger." "But that's not the right finger." "Isn't it?" "No. My grandmother gave me that." He held her eyes--forced her to see the comprehension in his. "Then you won't help me?" he said. "Help you? How?" "You don't want to tell me anything about yourself?" "But I have nothing to tell. I'm a very uninteresting person, I'm afraid." This was shyness, this dropping into conventional phrases. He led her deftly through them to a greater confidence in his interest, as you steer a boat through shallow, rapid-running water. He wanted to get to the woman beneath it all, knowing that the woman was there. So he made for deep water, guiding her through the shoals. Before they had finished their second course, she was telling him about Mr. Arthur. "And you don't love him?" he said. "No." "Respect him?" She paused. The pause answered him. The tension of the moment lifted. "Yes. I respect him. I know he's honourable. He must be reliable. After all he's offering me everything." You would have thought, to hear her, that the matter was yet in the balance, swaying uncertainly before it recorded the weight. There is the instinct of the woman in that. She felt the shadow of his apprehension; knew that she raised her value in his eyes by the seeming presence of debate. Yet none realized better than she, that Mr. Arthur had been stripped of all possibility now. The fateful comparison had been made--the comparison which most women make in the decision of such momentous issues--one man against another. Their emotions are the agate upon which the scales must swing. In favour of the man before her, they swung with ponderous obviousness. "Then you'll marry him?" said Traill. She looked at him questioningly--raised eyebrows--the look of mute appeal. You might have read anything behind her eyes--you might have read nothing. Traill studied them wonderingly. "You'll marry him--of course," he repeated. He was taking the risk. He might be forcing her to say yes. He prepared himself for it. To take that risk, knowing one way or another, rather than blindly groping to the end, this was typical of him. But he could not force her to the answer that he sought for. "Do you think I ought to?" she asked. He drummed his fingers on the table and looked through her. "Why do you ask me?"