His words, he knew, were rather brutal; it was rather brutal too to take advantage of this enforced _tête-à-tête_. But he could not pause to think of that; he knew only that unless he said these things he could not trust himself not to say things less brutal, indeed, but harder for her to hear. He could not quite tell how far he had himself in control. She had put out one hand as he began, as if to ward off his question; but as he went on it fell again, and she sat merely receiving what he said, sitting under it without shelter. "You have no right to treat me like that," he continued. "We part at my door, as far as I know, perfectly good friends one day, two days afterwards I am told that you cannot sit to me again. What can I have done? Have I done anything? Is it my fault in any way?" She looked at him once imploringly. "Please, please don't go on asking me," she said. But she could not stop him now; his own bare rights justified his questions, and there was that behind which urged him more strongly than they. "Is it my fault in any way?" he repeated. Then a sort of despairing courage seized the girl; she would nerve herself to the defence of her secret whatever happened. "No, it is not your fault," she said. "Then when you told Philip that it was because I bored you----" "Did he tell you that?" she asked. "Yes, he told me. It was not his fault. I made him practically. He could not have refused me." She thought intently for a moment, unable to see where her answer would lead her, or, indeed, what answer to give. In that perplexity she took the simplest way out, and told the truth. "Yes, I said that," she said. "But it was not true." "Then, again, I ask you why?" said he. She felt that she must break if he went on, and made one more appeal. "Ah, I beg of you not to question me," she cried. "You talk of justice too--is it fair on me that you use the accident of finding me alone here in this way? I can't go away, you know that, there is no one here to protect me. But if you by a single other question take advantage of it, I shall leave the house, just as I am, in this deluge, and walk back to the hotel. I must remind you that I am an unprotected girl, and you, I must remind you, are a gentleman." She rose with flashing eyes; it had taxed all her bravery to get this out, but it had come out triumphant. But the moment had come; all the force that had been gathering up was unable to contain itself in him any longer. One terrific second of calm preceded the explosion, and, as if Nature was following the lines of this human drama, for that second the downpour of the blinding rain outside was stayed. Inside and out there was a moment's silence. "I know all that," he said quietly, "but I can't help myself. It is not for the picture--that doesn't matter. It is for me. Because I love you."