There followed a silence during which her grey eyes met his black ones steadily, fearlessly, resolutely. Then in a whisper Piers spoke, his lips still close to hers. "Tell me what you were praying for, sweetheart!" She smiled a little. "No, dear, not now! It's nothing that's in your power to give me. Shall we sit on the window-seat and talk?" But Piers was loath to let her go from his arms. He knelt beside her as she sat, still holding her. She put her arm round his neck. "Do you remember your Star of Hope?" she asked him softly. "I remember," said Piers, but he did not turn his eyes to the night sky; they still dwelt upon her. Avery's face was toward the window. The drapery fell loosely away from her throat. He stooped forward suddenly and pressed his hot lips upon her soft white flesh. A little tremor went through her at his touch; she kept her face turned from him. "Have you really got all you want?" she asked after a moment. "Is there nothing at all left to hope for?" "Didn't we drink to the future only to-night?" he said. His arms were drawing her, but still she kept her face turned away. "Did you mean anything by that?" she asked. "Were you--were you thinking of anything special?" He did not at once answer her. He waited till with an odd reluctance she turned her face towards him. Then, "I was thinking of you," he said. Her heart gave a quick throb. "Of me?" she questioned below her breath. "Of you," he said again. "For myself, I have got all I can ever hope for. But you--you would be awfully happy, wouldn't you, if--" "If--" murmured Avery. He stooped again to kiss her white bosom. "And it would be a bond between us," he said, as if continuing some remark he had not uttered. She turned more fully to him. "Do we need that?" she said. "We might--some day," he answered, in a tone that somehow made it impossible for her to protest. "Anyhow, my darling, I knew,--I guessed. And I'm awfully glad--for your sake." She bent towards him. "Not for your own?" she whispered pleadingly. He laid his head suddenly down upon her knees with a sound that was almost a groan. "Piers!" she said in distress. He was silent for a space, then slowly raised himself. She had a sense of shock at sight of his face. It looked haggard and grey, as if a withering hand had touched him and shorn away his youth. "Avery,--oh, Avery," he said, "I wish I were a better man!" It was a cry wrung from his soul--the hungry cry which she had longed to hear, and it sent a great joy through her even though it wrung her own soul also. She bent to him swiftly. "Dearest, we all feel that sometimes. And I think it is the Hand of God upon us, opening our eyes." He did not answer or make any response to her words. Only as he clasped her to him, she heard him sigh. And she knew that, strive as he might to silence that soul-craving with earthly things, it would beat on unsatisfied through all. She came nearer to understanding him that night that ever before.