"I suppose it is about time for us to start," she said. She spoke as one in a maze; and still to herself she kept repeating— "The son of Nurse Molly! The brother of Jane Morris!" Yet still Dick Maurice!—the man who was becoming so much to her!— the man by whom she could be sure she was beloved! Her eyes fell upon the strong, finely-formed brown hand, clutching his stick, the hand which had drawn her attention when first they met as strangers; and a wave of tenderness rolled through her. How hard it was for him! "I meant to take you to the Lac des Chavonnes. It is part of the show. Perhaps you'd rather not—now." His face was wistful; and a reckless fit carried her away. Everything was different, she told herself. This might be their last, their very last, walk together. Why cut it short? Why not make the most of it? He had been so brave, so good, speaking out the distasteful truth! This one little treat, surely, she might allow—whether to him or to herself, she did not mentally specify. Nor did she pause to consider whether it was wise—whether, for his sake, if everything now would be different, she ought not at once to end their intercourse? The wish assailed her powerfully, and she gave in to it. "I suppose I ought just to see the lake. It is not far off, is it?" "Not half-an-hour's walk from Bretaye." His face brightened, and they went at a rapid pace down the steep grass-slope, each trying to put aside the prevailing thought, and to chat lightly. If Doris succeeded, Maurice did not. Reaching the small blue-grey piece of water, with its framework of jagged rocks and slender pines, they climbed to a shady spot, and sat long in silence, which neither was in haste to interrupt. Upon each stole a strong consciousness that, shared with the other, life offered the best that it had to give, little besides being essential for happiness. But, while this consciousness pervaded the whole being of the man, dominating his every faculty, it rested rather as a ray of brightness upon the surface of the girl's mind; not less genuine, but less deep. CHAPTER XXIV "But I'm Afraid" "DOES it matter so very much?" Maurice asked at length, a thrill of intense feeling in his voice. "I'm afraid it does." Her eyes were full. "It was wrong of me not to tell you sooner. You forgive?" "Oh, it isn't—forgiveness," she said, with difficulty. "It means so many things." "Tell me—what things." She shook her head. "I can't. How can I?" "No need," he said. Then he explained how fully he knew; how deeply he felt his own position; how in college days he had suffered—always in silence—from the impossibility of asking his college chums to his home, as other men did. How he had fought the battle out, had accepted those conditions of life which were his, had determined to make his own standing, had found friends, had hoped that the worst was over. And then—how he had seen her, and had discovered, with a new and terrible poignancy, what his position indeed meant.