The accent of pain in her voice again stung Winfrith into protest. 'Are you sure that you are acting wisely? Of course, I know that it is none of my business.' And as she made a quick dissenting gesture: 'If it is--if you will allow it to be my business, then let me say that in this matter of your fortune you are about to take a great risk, and one which you might bitterly regret later on,' he added deliberately, 'and for which you might in time be reproached.' But as he uttered these last words a sudden change came over Penelope's face. Winfrith had evoked another, a more intimate--ay, and a more eloquent--presence, and as she answered, 'Ah no! I need never be afraid of that,' a strange radiance came over her face, softening the severity of the lines, veiling the brightness of her blue eyes. Winfrith rose quickly from where he was sitting; he felt an impulse to wound, to strike, and then to flee. 'Men alter,' he said--'men and women, too. You and I----' Then he drove out the jealous devil which had possessed him for a moment, and asked: 'Well, I suppose that is all you wanted to see me about for the present? If you will give me your notes I will go into the matter; and if, as I understand, your marriage is to take place very soon abroad'--he waited for a moment, but there came no word of assent--'that will, of course, be a sufficient reason for pushing on everything as quickly as possible.' He added, with an air of studied indifference: 'May I ask how long you wish your engagement to be kept secret? Do you, for instance, object to my father being told?' Then he looked down at her, and what he saw roused every generous instinct, banished unworthy jealousy, and even dulled his bitterness. When had he last seen Penelope weeping? Years and years before, on the day of their parting, when they were still boy and girl lovers. But then her tears had come freely, like those of a child distressed; now no sound came from the bowed figure save long, shuddering sobs. Again he sat down by her. 'My dear,' he said, deeply troubled, 'what is it? What can I do for you?' 'You were so unkind,' she whispered, and he saw that she was trembling, 'you were going away--so coldly.' Then, almost inaudibly, she added: 'I did not think you would care so much.' She unclasped the hands in which her face had been hidden, and held them out to him. For a moment he took them in his, crushed the fingers wet with tears, and then let them go. 'Of course I care,' he said at length. 'You would not have me not care. We have been friends so long, you and I.' He stopped abruptly; the memory of many meetings, of many partings, became vivid and intolerable.