"I don’t mean that sort of honesty. That’s the sort of honesty that a dishonest man shields behind. You’d pay them if I gave you the money to pay them, or if anybody else gave you the money, or if you made the money. You meant to pay them, you probably thought you could pay them when you ordered the things." She looked up at him and laughed. "You poor old dear! I don’t suppose you’ve got twopence in your pocket. You couldn’t give it to me." "I’ve got one and nine," said John. "But the point is, if I could give it you, you wouldn’t take it. That’s the honesty I’m talking about. From the standard at which you rate life, that’s honesty, and you never depart from it. And, in a way, my standard has been much about the same--till now." "Till now?" She echoed it in a little note of apprehension. "Yes--till now. I thought these things were honest--now I’ve changed my standard, and I find them different, too." "What do you mean?" Her eyes looked far into his, and he stood there looking far back into hers. "You don’t love me, do you?" he said presently. A pause preceded her answer. "No," she said. "And I’ve never told you I loved you?" "No--never." "And yet, does it strike you that there may be such a thing?" "Oh, I suppose there is. Some people pretend they know all about it. I think you’re the kindest and the best person I’ve ever met--that’s enough for me." "Would you marry me?" said John. "No--never." "Why not?" "Because directly people marry--directly they find themselves bound, they look at each other in a different light. The question of whether it can last begins to creep in. With us, it doesn’t matter. I come and see you whenever you want me to. If it doesn’t last, then nobody’s hurt by it--if it does, let it last as long as it can. I don’t want it to end to-day--I might to-morrow. I might see someone I liked better." "And then you’d go?" "Most certainly." "Well--suppose you came across someone with whom you knew it must last; from whom you expected to find those things which go on past time and all measuring of clocks, would you marry them?" She came up close to him and laid her hands upon his shoulders. "You can tell me straight out," she said gently. "One of us was bound to find it one of these days. I only hoped it would be me. You can tell me who she is. Go on." John told her. This was what he had wanted the woman for--first his mother, then Mrs. Rowse, then the little typewriter, then even Jill herself. For it is a woman to whom a man must tell these things--nobody else will do; nobody else will understand. And when she had heard it all, she looked up with the suspicion of tears in her eyes and smiled. "Then I guess I’m the fly in the amber," she said. "It won’t be a clear bit of stone till I’m gone. Isn’t that what you mean?" And, taking his face in her hands, she kissed his forehead. "You’re a funny little boy," she said with a wry smile.