"Why, of course I love him. You don't know him, or you wouldn't ask. How could I help it? We're like two children together. And I don't mean anything silly. We're like that in hours of grief, too. Sometimes when I look at him in his sleep--the kind, careworn forehead, the silent serious mouth--and when I think how faithfully and carefully he guides me, how his one dreaming and waking thought is for my happiness--why, then I kneel down and kiss his hands till he wakes up. Once he thought it was our little dog, and murmured 'Shoo, shoo!' Oh, how we laughed! And if you imagine that such a state of affairs can't be reconciled with my feeling for you, why, then you're quite wrong. _That_ is upon an entirely different plane." "And your life is happy?" "Perfectly, perfectly." Radiantly she folded her hands. She did not suspect her position on the fearful edge of an abyss. She had not yet realised what his coming meant, nor how defenceless she was. He had but to stretch out his arms and she would fly to him, ready to sacrifice her fate to his mood. And this time there would be no returning to that well-ordered content. A dull feeling of responsibility arose in him and paralysed his will. Here was all that he needed in order to conquer a few years of new freshness and joy for the arid desert of his life. Here was the spring of life for which he was athirst. And he had not the courage to touch it with his lips. Chapter IV. A silence ensued in which their mood threatened to darken and grow turbid. Then he pulled himself together. "You don't ask me why I came, dear friend." She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. "A moment's impulse--or loneliness. That's all." "And a bit of remorse, don't you think so?" "Remorse? For what? You have nothing with which to reproach yourself. Was not our agreement made to be kept?" "And yet I couldn't wholly avoid the feeling as if my unbroken silence must have left a sting in your soul which would embitter your memory of me." Thoughtfully she stirred her tea.