She let him take both her hands in his; she let him drag them to his shoulders and press them there. But she bent her head forward. She hid her face from his. There was that which she had to tell him, things which she had to say, that must be told before he could blame himself any more for the love he had offered. She had known it was coming. He was quite right; she had known all he was going to say, realised it ever since that day when they had quarrelled in Kensington Gardens. All the moments between until this, had been a wonderful anticipation. A thousand times her breath had caught; a thousand times her heart had thumped, thinking he was about to speak; and through it all, just these few weeks or so, the anxious longing, the tireless praying that what she had now to say need never be said. For a little while she let him hold her so. It would be the last time. God had been talking, or He had been sleeping, and St. Joseph--perhaps he had taken John’s gift of generosity rather than that last candle of her’s, for the petition she had made on that 18th of March in the Sardinia St. Chapel had not been answered. Presently she looked up into his eyes. "You mustn’t blame yourself, John," she said gently. "It is I who deserve all the blame." "Why?" he said--"why?" "Because--not for the reason you said--but for something else, this is all impossible. I know it is the most wonderful thing that will ever be in my life. I know that. I’m sure of it. But something has happened since I saw you last, which makes it impossible for us to see each other again." "Your people have found out? They forbid it?" She shook her head. "No--no--it’s not that. They know nothing. I must go back in order to explain it to you." Still holding his hand, she slipped into a chair, motioning him to draw up another beside her. "You remember when we first met?" He nodded. "Did you ever wonder why I was praying to St. Joseph?" "Wonder?" he echoed. "I’ve thought of a thousand different things." "I don’t suppose you’ve thought of the right one," said Jill. "My father’s not rich, you know; not so rich as you might expect from his position and the house where we live. At one time we were better off, but they still try to live on at Prince of Wales’ Terrace, though they can’t really afford it. Father lost money in speculation, and, before that, he had put down Ronald’s name for Eton. Then the chances of his ever going there seemed to dwindle to nothing. It was when it almost seemed as if we must leave the house in Kensington, that a friend of father’s asked me to marry him. He was over forty--some years older than me and I----" "You refused him, of course," said John quickly. At twenty-six, forty years can seem the millennium when they stand in your way.