"You should have told the gardener," he said. "You mustn't go tiring yourself out over me. I'm not worth it." He added, with that kindly courtesy of which adversity had never deprived him, "But I'm real grateful all the same. You mustn't think me unappreciative." "I don't," she answered gently. "Wouldn't you like them in water?" "Ah, yes," he said. "Put them near me. I shall smell them if I can't see them. Do you mind closing the window? I can't get warm to-day." She moved to comply, passing across his line of vision. A moment she stood with the keen sweet air blowing in upon her, a tall, gracious figure in the full flower of comely womanhood, not beautiful, but possessing in every line of her that queenly, indescribable charm which is greater than beauty. The man caught his breath as he watched her. His brows contracted. Softly she closed the window and turned. She came back to her chair by his side, drew forward a little table, and began deftly to arrange her flowers. Several seconds passed before Lucas broke the silence. "It does me good to watch you," he said. "You're always so serene." She smiled at him across the violets. "You place serenity among the higher virtues?" "I do," he said simply. "It's such a restful contrast to the strenuousness of life. You make me feel just by looking at you that everything's all right. You bring a peaceful atmosphere in with you, and"--his voice sank a little--"you take it away again when you go." The smile went out of her grey eyes at his last words, but the steadfastness remained. "Then," she said gently, "I must come more often and stay longer." But he instantly negatived that. "No--it wouldn't be good for you. It wouldn't be good for me either to get to lean on you too much. I should grow exacting." She saw a gleam of his old smile as he spoke, but it was gone at once, lost among the countless lines that pain and weariness had drawn of late upon his face. "I don't think that is very likely," Anne said. "I can't imagine it." "Not yet perhaps. I haven't quite reached that stage. Maybe I shall be down and out before it comes. God grant it!" The words were too deliberate to cause her any shock. They were, moreover, not wholly unexpected. There followed a short silence while she finished arranging her violets. Then very quietly she spoke: "You say that because you are tired." "I am more than tired," he answered. "I'm done. I'm beaten. I'm whipped off the field." "You think you are not gaining ground?" she questioned. "My dear Lady Carfax," he said quietly, "it's no use closing one's eyes to the obvious. I'm losing ground every day--every night." "But you are not fighting," she said. "No." He looked at her half-wistfully from under his heavy eyelids. "Do you think me quite despicable? I've done my best." She was silent. Perhaps she was not fully prepared to cope with this open admission of failure.