"Ah, how can I tell you that?" he said, "beyond telling you at least that in my opinion, which after all is only my opinion, it is in joy that you, almost above everyone I know, will ripen and bear fruit. Sorrow, asceticism is the road by which some approach happiness, but I do not see you on that road. Renunciation for you----" Evelyn got up and came a step closer. "Yes? Yes?" he cried. Merivale answered him by another question. "Something has happened to you," he said. "What is it?" "I have fallen in love," said the other. "I only knew it to-day. Yes, her, Madge Ellington. Good God, man, I love her! And I am painting her--I see her nearly daily alone; it is my business to study her face and get to know her----" His voice dropped suddenly. "What am I to do?" he said after a moment. "Philip, the whole thing----" "Ah, you can't go on," said Merivale quickly. "You must see that. Wherever our paths lie, there is honour----" "Honour?" cried Evelyn almost savagely. "Have I not as good a right to love her as Philip has? You can't tie one down like that! Besides, how can I help loving her? Night and day are not less in my control. Besides, I have no reason to suppose that she loves me, so what harm is done? But if she does or should----" Again he stopped, for there was no need to go on; the conclusion of the sentence was not less clear because it was unspoken. After a moment he continued. "And what was your view just now about renunciation for me?" he asked. Merivale got up. "I don't know what to say to you," he said. "What do you propose, you yourself?" "I propose to tell her what I know--that I love her," said he. There was a long pause; Merivale was looking out over the dusky garden, and his lips moved as if he was trying to frame some sentence, yet no words came. In the East the moon was soon to rise behind the wedge of beech-wood which came diagonally across the heath, and though it was not yet visible, the sky was changing from the dark velvet blue which had succeeded sunset to the mysterious dove colour which heralds the moon. A night breeze stirred among the shrubs, and the scent of the stocks was wafted into the verandah, twined, as it were, with the swooning fragrance of the syringa. But for once Merivale was unconscious of the witchery of the hour; in spite of himself, the interests, the problems, the suffering and renunciation of human life, from which he had thought he had weaned himself, claimed him again. He had tried, and in great measure succeeded, in detaching himself from them, but he had not completely broken away from them yet. He had enlisted under the banner of joy, but now from the opposing hosts there came a cry to him, and he could not shut his ears to it. Here was the necessity for suffering, it could not but be that of these two friends of his, suffering poignant and cruel lay before one of them, though which that one should be he did not know. But the necessity was dragged before his notice.