The hands of the tiny Swiss clock on the mantelpiece pointed to half-past ten by the time I had finished. I gazed at the clock dully, thinking for a moment how little time my recital had occupied. Then I remembered that the hands had pointed to half-past ten before I had begun.... Mechanically I took the clock down and wound it up. To wind up a clock was something to do until Evie should speak. She had not once interrupted me. At one point of my story she had merely got up from my knee and seated herself in a low rocking-chair, in which she now rocked softly. As I still sat with the clock in my hands I tried idly to remember at which point of my story she had got up; it might be an indication of her state of mind; but I forgot this again, and found myself examining the back of the clock almost with curiosity. I did not look at her. I put the clock back on the mantelpiece again and once more sat down, still without looking at her. Glancing presently at the clock again I saw that its hands pointed to five and twenty minutes to eleven. I had wound it up, but had forgotten to set it right. That again was something to do. I adjusted it by my watch, and again sat down. Then she spoke, and my heart sank. There was nothing in her tone but wonderment--wonderment, not at the story I had told her, but that I should have found it worth telling at all. After all that portentous preparation--only that! Odd enough, of course--sad enough, if you liked--but---- "Well, but, Jeff," she said, puzzled, "what about it?" "Don't you see?" I asked, in a lower voice. "Of course I see--how do you mean, 'see'? And I think you were awfully stupid. She was _bound_ to find out, and she did find out, and left you, poor dear. It was absurd from beginning to end. Really I shall begin to think myself clever and you a simpleton, if that's all you've been moping about." As you see, I had not advanced matters by one single inch. "It _is_ all, isn't it, Jeff?" she asked anxiously, suddenly sitting forward in the rocking-chair. "I don't mean," she went on more anxiously still, "that the whole thing wasn't awfully queer--not quite nice, dear, to speak the truth--but--but"--again there returned that quick look of fear with which she had asked me whether I had not loved her--"but--there wasn't--anything--Jeff?" I sank back in my chair. "No, there wasn't--anything," I said wearily. "Then, Jeff----" she cried gladly. And the next moment she was at my knee again, overflowing with comfort and compassion. "You poor boy--you poor darling boy!" she crooned, so melted by my contrition that my offence went uncondemned. "Poor love!... And," she looked adorably up, "how _could_ Evie reproach you, Jeff, when it was all for her? Darling!" she broke out, "_you_ ought to reproach _me_, for thinking.... But you were so fearfully solemn.... I thought perhaps you hadn't loved Evie.... _Has_ always loved Evie, hasn't he? And _will_ always love her, yes? Great strong hand!"