Had he been blind? _Did_ she care? If so--his face was white and grave--the only decent thing to do was to go away out of her life. And at the thought he stopped aghast, his whole world upside down. "I can't do it!"--the words broke from him with a ring of genuine consternation, echoing in the empty carriage that penned him in like a prison cell. For a space he sat, his head bowed down between his hands, blotting out the light, rosy now on a dewy land, heralding in the newborn day. Then, slowly he looked up, a great wonder on his face. The rays of the sun were dim beside the white truth that poured in on him. "Jill ... little Jill..." he whispered her name, conjuring up the grey eyes under their dark curling lashes, and the frank gaze that met his own. Jill, with her courage and endurance, clever brain and heart of a child. For a moment he held her in his arms--his to teach the meaning of love... Then--with a sigh--he put her away. For the first time for long years he placed another's happiness before his own. Was it fair to her? Was he _fit_ to marry Jill? A new-born sense of unworthiness swept aside his desire. His past life rose up, his old mistrust of himself, the mystery of his "double heart" ... his light and pleasure-loving nature. He thought of Fantine and Cydonia, of many a pretty woman's face; of this last year in Italy with its careless sequence of adventures. Could he be faithful to the end? "Yes!" cried his heart. "Wait," said his brain. Reason warred with emotion; he stood at the crossroads of his life. And the stronger, cleaner side of the man rose up in his soul's defence. He must prove himself, _know_ himself before Jill could become his wife. He took a vow then and there to pass through a period of probation. But Jill was worth waiting for. If she cared? ... A doubt stabbed him and he set his teeth, his face dogged. He _would_ win her--come what may! His thoughts forged fast ahead, he felt the keen thrill of pursuit. And then the figure of his friend, square set, with honest eyes--that other lover of Jill's--flashed up into the foreground of the picture. He felt ashamed. He thought of Bethune with a sudden new understanding; the deep sincerity of the man, the meaning of his last words... Here was love at its highest, purged from all mere passion--a love based on unselfishness, its one object Jill's happiness. He saw a hard fight ahead, not only with his own desire, but to keep his vow in the knowledge that the girl might suffer through his silence. Nevertheless, a few hours later, as he crossed the fields, impatience stirred, a longing he had never known for the sight of a loved woman's face. And as he climbed the last stile and found at the meeting of the roads the powerful car awaiting him he hailed the chauffeur with delight. "There you are!"--he clambered up, seating himself by the driver--"let her go." They were off, the dust in a whirling cloud behind them.