His heart began to beat more quickly. He turned his head but she was looking away. He could see only the curve of her long eyelashes. It seemed to him strange then that he had never noticed the likeness to Sabatini before. Her mouth, her forehead, the carriage of her head, were all his. He leaned towards her. There was something stirring in his heart then, something throbbing there, which seemed to bring with it a cloud of new and bewildering emotions. The whole world was slipping away. Something strange had come into the room. "Ruth," he whispered, "will you look at me for a moment?" She kept her head turned away. "Don't!" she pleaded. "Don't talk to me just now. I can't bear it, Arnold." "But I have something to say to you," he persisted. "I have something new, something I must say, something that has just come to me. You must listen, Ruth." She held out her hand feverishly. "Please, Arnold," she begged, "I don't want to hear--anything. I know how kind you are and how generous. Just now--I think it is the heat--be still, please. I can't bear anything." Her fingers clutched his and yet kept him away. Every moment he was more confident of this thing which had come to him. A strange longing was filling his heart. The old days when he had kissed her carelessly upon the forehead seemed far enough away. Then, in that brief period of silence which seemed to him too wonderful to break, there came a little tap at the door. They both turned their heads. "Come in," Arnold invited. There was a moment's hesitation. Then the door was opened. Fenella entered. Arnold sprang to his feet. "Mrs. Weatherley!" he exclaimed. She smiled at him with all her old insolent grace. "Since when?" she demanded. "Fenella, if you please." She was more simply dressed than usual, in a thin, black gown and black picture hat, and there were shadows under her eyes. No one could look at her and fail to know that she was suffering. She came across to Ruth. "My brother is the dearest thing in life to me," she said. "He is all that I have left to me belonging to my own world. All these days I have spent at his bedside, except when they have sent me away. This evening I have come to see you. You are his child, Ruth." Ruth turned her head slowly. "Yes," she murmured, half fearfully. "When Arnold brought you to Bourne End," Fenella continued, "for one moment I looked at you and I wondered. You seemed, even then, to remind me of some one who had existed in the past. I know now who it was. You have something of Andrea's air, but you are very like your mother, Ruth." "You knew her?" Ruth asked. "Very slightly," Fenella replied. "She was a very clever actress and I saw her sometimes upon the stage. Sometimes I think that Andrea did not treat her well, but that was the way of his world. Assuredly he never treated her badly, or you and I would not be here together now." "I am afraid that you are sorry," Ruth said, timidly.