“Well, you needn’t now; I’m sure.” He sealed it with his quiet smile, leaning toward her a little, but without moving his chair nearer. There was something infinitely reassuring in the way he took things for granted, without undue emphasis or enthusiasm. “Lie down now; let me pull that shawl up. A cigarette--may I? I suppose there’ll be tea presently? We needn’t talk about plans till tomorrow.” She tried to smile back. “But what else is there to talk about?” Her eyes rested on his face, and she read in it his effort to remain the unobtrusive and undemanding friend. The sight gave her a little twinge of compunction. “I mean, there’s nothing to say about me. Let’s talk about you,” she suggested. The blood mounted to his temples, congesting his cheek-bones and the elderly fold above his stiff collar. He made a movement as if to rise, and then settled back resolutely into his chair. “About me? There’s nothing to say about me either--except in relation to you. And there there’s too much! Don’t get me going. Better take me for granted.” “I do; that’s my comfort.” She was beginning to smile on him less painfully. “All your goodness to me--” But now he stood up, his pink deepening to purple. “Oh, not that, please! It rather hurts; even at my age. And I assure you I can be trusted to remind myself of it at proper intervals.” She raised herself on her elbow, looking up at him in surprise. “I’ve hurt you? I didn’t mean to.” “Well--goodness, you know! A man doesn’t care to be eternally reminded of his goodness; not even if it’s supposed to be all he has to offer--in exchange for everything.” “Oh--_everything_!” She gave a little shrug. “If ever a woman came to a man empty-handed....” With a slight break in his voice he said: “You come with yourself.” The answer, and his tone, woke in her a painful sense of his intense participation in their talk and her own remoteness from it. The phrase “come with yourself” shed a lightning-flash of irony on their reciprocal attitude. What self had she left to come with? She knew he was waiting for an answer; she felt the cruelty of letting his exclamation drop as if unheard; but what more had she to say to him--unless she should say everything? The thought shot through her for the first time. Had she really meant to marry him without his knowing? Perhaps she had; she was not sure; she felt she would never again be very sure of her own intentions. But now, through all the confusion and exhaustion of her mind, one fact had become abruptly clear: that she would have to tell him. Whether she married him or not seemed a small matter in comparison. First she must look into those honest eyes with eyes as honest. “Myself?” she said, echoing his last word. “What do you know of that self, I wonder?” He continued to stand before her in the same absorbed and brooding attitude. “All I need to know is how unhappy you’ve been.”