“Because I couldn’t, of course, explain to her as I do to you the way that these old, dead, long-forgotten things are springing up again in me. She would never understand. But we were both agreed—she as strongly as I—that this was the right thing, the only thing.... You know that I would not hurt a fly if I could help it. No, tell her that I won’t write. I’ll keep to my word. Not a line from either of us until Time has made it safe, easy. And Stepan will be good to her. He’s the best fellow in the world, although so often I hated him. For his sake, as well as for all the other reasons, I will not write.... Meanwhile it is really true enough that I’m frightened for, perhaps, the first time in my life....” * * * * * Suspicion was the key-note of young Henry Trenchard at this time. He was so unsure of himself that he must needs be unsure of everyone else. He was, of course, suspicious of Philip Mark. He was suspicious and he also admired him. On the day after Mark had sat up writing his letter ‘half the night because he was excited’, on the afternoon of that day they were sitting in the green dim drawing-room waiting for tea. Mark was opposite Henry, and Henry, back in the shadow, as he liked to sit, huddled up but with his long legs shooting out in front of him as though they belonged to another body, watched him attentively, critically, inquisitively. Mark sat with a little pool of electric light about him and talked politely to Mrs. Trenchard, who, knitting a long red woollen affair that trailed like a serpent on to the green carpet, said now and then such things as: “It must be very different from England” or “I must say I should find that very unpleasant,” breaking in also to say: “Forgive me a moment. Henry, that bell did ring, didn’t it?” or “Just a little more on the fire, Henry, please. That big lump, please.” Then, turning patiently to Mark and saying: “I beg your pardon, Mr. Mark—you said?” Henry, having at this time a passion for neatness and orderly arrangements, admired Mark’s appearance. Mark was short, thick-set and very dark. A closely-clipped black moustache and black hair cut short made him look like an officer, Henry thought. His thick muscular legs proved him a rider, his mouth and ears were small, and over him from head to foot was the air of one who might have to be ‘off’ on a dangerous expedition at any moment and would moreover know exactly what to do, having been on many other dangerous expeditions before. Only his eyes disproved the man of action. They were dreamy, introspective, wavering eyes—eyes that were much younger than the rest of him and eyes too that might be emotional, sentimental, impetuous, foolish and careless.