He gulped his tea down. His heart alternately leaped and stood still. A sort of numbness held him most of that dreadful interval, and no clear thought came at all. Every ten seconds his head turned towards the door that rattled, seemed to move, yet never opened. But any moment now it _must_ open, and he would be in her very presence, breathing the same air with her. He would see her, charge himself with her beauty once more to the brim, and then go out again into the wilderness--the wilderness of life--without her, and not for a mere ten years but for always. She was so utterly beyond his reach. He felt like a backwoodsman, he was a backwoodsman. For one thing only was he duly prepared, though he thought about it little enough--she would, of course, have changed. The photograph he owned, cut from an illustrated paper, was not true now. It might even be a little shock perhaps. He must remember that. Ten years cannot pass over a woman without-- Before he knew it the door was open, and she was advancing quietly towards him across the thick carpet that deadened sound. With both hands outstretched she came, and with the sweetest welcoming smile upon her parted lips he had seen in any human face. Her eyes were soft with joy. His whole heart leaped within him; for the instant he saw her it all flashed clear as sunlight--that she knew and understood. She had always known, had always understood. Speech came easily to him in a flood, had he needed it, but he did not need it. It was all so adorably easy, simple, natural, and true. He just took her hands--those welcoming, outstretched hands--in both of his own, and led her to the nearest sofa. He was not even surprised at himself. Inevitably, out of depths of truth, this meeting came about. And he uttered a little foolish commonplace, because he feared the huge revulsion that his sudden glory brought, and loved to taste it slowly: "So you live here still?" "Here, and here," she answered softly, touching his heart, and then her own. "I am attached to this house, too, because _you_ used to come and see me here, and because it was here I waited so long for you, and still wait. I shall never leave it--unless you change. You see, we live together here." He said nothing. He leaned forward to take and hold her. The abrupt knowledge of it all somehow did not seem abrupt--it was as though he had known it always; and the complete disclosure did not seem disclosure either--rather as though she told him something he had inexplicably left unrealized, yet not forgotten. He felt absolutely master of himself, yet, in a curious sense, outside of himself at the same time. His arms were already open--when she gently held her hands up to prevent. He heard a faint sound outside the door. "But you are free," he cried, his great passion breaking out and flooding him, yet most oddly well controlled, "and I--" She interrupted him in the softest, quietest whisper he had ever heard: