Mayne entered. There was a moment’s embarrassing silence while his look travelled, scarcely perceptibly, from one to the other. Then he spoke coolly, without haste, as usual. “I’m at least half an hour too early. I don’t deserve my hostess to be ready.” Robert glanced at his watch. “You _are_ very early,” he said, significantly, “but I will go and dress.” His face was white with anger as he passed Mayne on the way to the door. When it closed upon him, Mayne went up to the mantelpiece and stood opposite Cecily. “What’s wrong?” he asked, gravely. She tried to keep her voice steady, and smiled. “Nothing--nothing that matters. A silly little argument, that’s all.” “Your husband is suspicious of our friendship?” Cecily glanced at him appealingly, then suddenly dropped her head on her clasped hands. “Oh, don’t, Dick! Don’t!” she whispered. “I can’t go through it all again.” Mayne stood looking at her down-bent head. All at once he leaned over her. “I wish to God you loved me,” he said, in a low, passionate voice. She raised her face and looked at him steadily. “I wish to God I did,” she answered, very slowly. He made a sudden movement towards her and checked himself. “Could you----?... No! That isn’t what I’ve got to say.” He passed his hand over his face and went on, doggedly, “Cis, I’m going away.” Cecily started. “That’s why I came early,” he went on, in the same unemotional tone. “I hoped to find you alone.... I must go, Cis. For a long time I’ve known it, but I’ve kept it at the back of my mind and wouldn’t look. And now, at last, Mrs. Summers has made me drag it out, and so----” He finished the sentence with a gesture. “Rose?” repeated Cecily, vaguely. “She’s quite right,” he said. “It’s not fair to you----” She made a protesting movement, but he intercepted it and drew himself up. “It’s not fair to _me_ to stay,” he added, firmly. Her hand dropped at her side. “Not fair to you?” she echoed, as if a new light had broken. “No; it isn’t--it isn’t.” She moved to the sofa and let herself drop against the cushions as though exhausted. “I’ve been selfish, Dick,” she went on, still in the same dazed voice. “I’ve been so thankful for your help. So glad of you--you can’t think how glad. And all the time I never realized what it must have meant to you.” She put up her hand to her head with a touchingly childish gesture. “I’ve been horribly selfish.” He stood looking at her--looking as though by his intense gaze he would print her face upon his memory forever. Only vaguely he heard what she was saying. His senses were too full of her to heed. The faint fragrance of her dress, the sweet blue of her troubled eyes, the quivering of her lips, were making his heart beat to suffocation. “No, dear,” he murmured, absently, “no.”