"She said that you would come anywhere, that you would do anything for me." Jill tried to meet his eyes. "When did she say that?" she asked. "Last year--after you had gone." He watched her as he waited for her to reply, but she kept silent. It was not a moment in which she dared to speak; moreover, other matters were waiting. In St. Mark’s, beneath the image of St. Anthony, where they had met the year before, they chose to go and make their arrangements. There is everything that is conservative about Romance. Places become dear for themselves, for the spirit of the Romance which, like a lingering perfume, still hangs about their corners. The times alter perhaps, sometimes even the woman herself is different; but the spirit, the Romance and with them often the place, remain the same. "You understand all it means, your coming to see them?" he asked when they were seated. "You understood my letter? You realise what I’ve been saying?" "Yes, every word." "Then why did you come?" "I couldn’t bear to think of his dying without----" she hesitated, or did she hang upon the words--"without seeing your--your wife as he wanted to. Oh, John! Why did you say it? It wasn’t right of you! You ought not to have done it!" She was angry! His beautiful nonsense had offended her! Might he not have known that? What woman in the world was there who could have understood so well as to sympathise with the trick which he had played. "If it has annoyed you," said he, "why did you come? Of course, I know it was unpardonable; but then, I thought you’d never know. I didn’t understand how much a fabrication, an invention it was, until I heard that he was dying and wanted to see you before the end. It had been so easy to make up till then. I’d become infatuated with my own success. Then, when I got the letter from the doctor, I realised that I was done. I couldn’t go to his death-bed, making up lies, giving him messages that had never passed your lips, never entered into your thoughts. I was done. And I hoped you’d understand. I hoped--like a fool, I suppose--that you wouldn’t be offended." "But I’m not offended." He stared at her. Even St. Anthony stared, because St. Anthony does not know so much about women as you would expect. He knows full well their extraordinary valuation of trifles, but on serious matters such as these, he is as ignorant of them as the rest of us. "You’re not offended!" echoed John. "No." "Then why did you say I was wrong? Why did you say I ought not to have done it?" "Because it was not fair to them. They might have found out. The little old white-haired lady may find out even now." "Then you don’t think it was unfair to you?" "You thought I should?" He nodded emphatically two or three times.