"But he'll never know. It's not the sort of thing any one would think of. I leave the motor down at Sixth Avenue, and this time of year it's so dark. As soon as I heard Miss Davis was leaving I thought how nice the place would be for you." Since it was useless to make the obvious correction here, I thanked her for her kindness, going on to add: "But I don't want to get into any trouble." "No, of course not." She began moving toward the door. "What kind of trouble were you thinking of?" I wondered whether or not, having taken one liberty, I could take another. "When I see my boat being caught in the rapids I'm afraid there's a cataract ahead." It took her some thirty seconds to seize the force of this. Having got it her eyes fell. "Oh, I see! And does that mean," she went on, her bosom heaving, "that you're afraid of the cataract on your own account--or on mine?" I paused in our slow drifting toward the door. She was a great lady in the land, and I was nobody. I had much to risk, and I risked it. "Should I offend you," I asked, deferentially, "if I said--on yours?" For an instant she became as haughty as so sweet a nature knew how to be, but the prompting passed. "No; you don't offend me," she said, after a brief pause. "We're friends, aren't we, in spite of--" As she hesitated I filled in the phrase. "In spite of the difference between us." Because she was pursuing her own thoughts she allowed that to pass. "People have gone over cataracts--and still lived." "Ah, but there's more to existence than life," I exclaimed, promptly. "There was a friend of my own," she continued, without immediate reference to my observation; "at least she was a friend--I suppose she is still--her name was Madeline Grimshaw--" "Yes, Mrs. Pyne; but she wasn't Mrs. Brokenshire." "No; she never was so unhappy." She pressed her handkerchief against the two great tears that rolled down her cheeks. "She did love Mr. Grimshaw at one time, whereas I--" "But you say he's kind." "Oh yes. It isn't that. He's more than kind. He'd smother me with things I'd like to have. It's--it's when he comes near me--when he touches me--and--and his eye!" I knew enough of physical repulsion to be able to change my line of appeal. "But do you think you'd gain anything if you made him unhappy--now?" She looked at me wonderingly. "I shouldn't think you'd plead for him." I had ventured so far that I could go a little farther. "I don't think I'm pleading for him so much as for you." "Why do you plead for me? Do you think I should be--sorry?" "If you did what I imagine you're contemplating--yes." She surprised me by admitting my implication. "Even if I did, I couldn't be sorrier than I am." "Oh, but existence is more than joy and sorrow." "You said just now that it was more than life. I suppose you mean that it's love." "I should say that it's more than love." "Why, what can it be?" I smiled apologetically. "Mightn't it be--right?"