THEY had followed the circuit of the landscape, standing up to look each way in turn; then resuming their seats. A break in the talk came. Doris twisted round, to gaze over the abrupt descent behind them—then looked again admiringly towards the wonderful Oberland dream-vision. She had anew the feeling that Maurice wanted to say something; and waited for him to say it. Her sense spoke truly. All the morning he had been pondering how to lead up to this something—how to produce it; and conjecturing how she would take it. He dreaded coming to the point. It might make all the difference with her; with his hopes of winning her. But the thing had to be said. And he could hope for no better opportunity. When he spoke, there was a sound of strain in his voice. "You were asking one day—not long ago—how it was that I took to my present work." "Yes, I remember. You said it wouldn't have been your own choice. I suppose that means that you don't care for doctoring—or rather, for surgery." "It is a life with no end of openings." "Openings for what?" "Helping others. Being of use." "But you would have liked something else." "My real bent was for the army." "And why didn't you—?" "The friend who paid for my education refused his consent." She wondered why this brought a disagreeable sensation. "What made him refuse?" "He gave no reason." "And you are sorry—still!" "Nothing is more foolish than to be a slave to useless regrets. My line is marked out for me; and I have to make the best of it." "That is brave—anyway," she murmured. "It is my simple duty." He had not yet said what had to be said. It was difficult to come to the point. He was sorely tempted to put off. "But your friend who—had he a right to forbid the army?" "I suppose he had—in a way. He made it a condition of giving the help that I—we—needed." "I see," she said. But she felt that she did not see. "Was he a near relative?" "No. A friend." Doris kept uneasy silence. He added, "My mother enforced his wish." She repeated, "Your mother?" with a note of inquiry. "I have meant to tell you more about her. It is right that I should. Her father, my grandfather, was, I have always heard, a very superior man; head-clerk in a large house of business in Manchester. But he married beneath him—one of the mill-hands. I don't know how it came about. My mother was left an orphan very young; and her home was with an uncle—a farmer. She is not well educated. She was sent to school, I know, for two or three years—but perhaps she did not care to learn." Doris was taken acutely by surprise. She did not know what to say; and she waited in silence for more.