“Robin, dear,” she whispered, “listen! There are different sorts of love. It’s true--I can’t deny it--that I don’t feel in the old way,--in the way I did when--when we first married. But all the same you are more to me than any man in the world. Your troubles are my troubles. I hate you to be unhappy. When Rose told me how ill you looked, I wanted to fly all the way home, to look after you.” She thought suddenly of the letter she had read in the hotel bedroom, and was thankful to feel that she was speaking truth. “All that part of my love has never failed. Do you know, Robin, when one has loved very much, I believe one spins a sort of web, made up of a thousand, thousand threads, binding one to the loved person? They are very slight, but very strong. We can’t break them. I can’t break the threads I spun round you. I have tried, but I can’t. Oh, Robin, don’t say I oughtn’t to have come back!” He laid his head on her breast with a touchingly helpless gesture. “If you hadn’t come back I should have died,” he said. “I don’t deserve anything, Cecily. But, oh, my dear, give me--as much--as you can.” THE END TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized. Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.