Never before had Madge so felt the utter uselessness of words. How could words be made to reach him? Yet how, again, could the yearning of her whole soul to console and comfort him fail to reach him? What she said she hardly knew; she was but conscious of the outpourings of herself in pity and love. She held that poor blind head in her hands, she kissed the mouth, she kissed the scars, she pushed up the dark spectacles and kissed the dear, empty eyelids, and all the horror that had involuntarily made her shudder when first she saw his face was gone, melted, vanished. For it had been but a superficial thing, as little her true self, as little to be taken as an index of what her heart felt, as the sudden shudder of goose-flesh, and just now at any rate it was swept away. That she would feel it again, often and often, she did not doubt, but of that she took no heed whatever. This--this pity and love--which had come upon her like a flash of revelation--was her true and her best self, and though again and again she might fall back from it, her flesh wincing and being afraid, yet there would be always the memory of this moment to guide and direct her. There would be difficult times; the whole of the rest of her life would be difficult, but it no longer presented the appearance of impossibility. And how full and dear to her heart was Evelyn's response. "Oh, Madge," he said, "the worst of all was the thought that you would shrink from me. I minded that so much more than anything. I should not have reproached you, I don't think I should have done that even to myself, after guessing, as I have guessed, what I must be like, for I should have understood. But what I don't understand is how it is you do not shrink. I don't want to understand, either; it is quite enough for me that it is so. And when I am cross, as I shall be, and despondent, as I shall be, and odious, try to remember what I have said to you now. I want to be remembered by that." So that was his best moment, too. * * * * * Philip arrived by the dinner train that night with a couple of other guests, and when the rest of them went up at the usual early hour, to get a good night after the journey of the day in the fresh air, he and Madge lingered behind, for naturally he wanted to learn about Evelyn and also about her. Both also perhaps felt that it was inevitable that they should have one talk together; it could hardly have been otherwise. It began abruptly enough. As soon as the door was shut behind the last of the outgoers she came towards him with hands outstretched. "I know you don't want me to say 'thank you,' Philip," she said, "but I can't help it. I can't tell you how deeply I thank you." He held her hands for a moment, pressing them closely, and smiling at her.