“Will you come to see my dear mother’s sitting room?” Anselm asked, going toward the stairs. “It is up one flight. It is like a chapel to me; I’ve often wanted to make it into one, but there are necessary sleeping rooms over it; I can’t use it for a chapel. It is the room in which I was happiest as a child, though I was always happy. It is the room where I learned to love books and all beauty, and where my soul was born through the soul of that lovely creature who gave me physical life.” Cis followed him, wondering, deeply moved. This was not the Anselm Lancaster she knew, yet it was not the contradiction of him; rather it was his efflorescence. He led her into a small, light room, facing toward the sunset, which was not yet, nor for hours, due. Evidently the room had not been changed since it had been used by the mother whom he had so dearly loved. Books, a work-basket, were on the table; a low armchair, considerably worn, stood beside the table. Anselm gently put Cis into it, and stood before her. “My mother’s chair, dear Cicely,” he said. “I like to see you there. How you would have loved each other! Cis, dear, lovely, glowing Cicely, don’t you know what I’ve brought you here to tell you? Don’t you know? Haven’t you guessed?” Slowly Cis shook her head, looking at him intently, as if she were groping her way, her mind rejecting the one explanation of his words that it could present to her. “Why, I love you, Cis! That’s what it is. That’s easy to guess, easier to understand!” cried Anselm. “No, no, no! It’s impossible to understand!” cried Cis. “You’re going to marry me, dearest; you’re going to be here in my mother’s place, always. Can’t you love me? I love you so much!” Anselm pleaded. “I never once thought of it; never once!” Cis cried. “You don’t have to think of it; just do it!” Anselm said boyishly. “I think you are the best, the finest--” began Cis, but he interrupted her with an impatient exclamation. “Good heavens, Cis, stop! That’s nothing to tell me, nor to feel! Love me; don’t admire me!” “Isn’t it? I think I couldn’t love anyone I didn’t admire,” said Cis, trying to find her puzzled way. “I loved someone; you know that. I was crazy to see him; it made my breath short when he came; I--One doesn’t love again, does she? But I know now that I couldn’t love him last winter because I didn’t admire him.”