May coloured as she felt his eyes upon her, but she braced herself to meet his question as if it was a matter about which they cared nothing. "I didn't want to waste your time," she said, and she drew her gloves through her hand and moved away. "Bingham," he said, "knows more than I do, perhaps more than any man in Oxford, about mediæval architecture." "Ah yes," said May, and she walked slowly towards the fireplace. "And he will have shown you everything," he persisted. May was now in front of the portrait, though she did not notice it. "I didn't go into the cathedral," she said. The Warden raised his head as if throwing off some invisible burden. Then he moved and came and stood near her--also facing the portrait. But neither noticed the large luminous eyes fixed upon them, visible even in the darkening room. "I suppose one ought not to be critical of a drawing-room song," said the Warden, and his voice now was changed. May moved her head slightly towards him, but did not meet his eyes. "I was inclined," he said, "but then I am by trade a college tutor, to criticise one line of Tennyson's verse." She knew what he meant. "What line do you object to?" she asked, and the line seemed to be already dinning in her ears. He quoted the line, pronouncing the words with a strange emphasis-- "'Love that can shape or can shatter a life, till the life shall have fled.'" "Yes?" said May. "It is a pretty sentiment," he said. "I suppose we ought to accept it as such." "Oh!" said May, and her voice lingered doubtfully over the word. "Have we any right to expect so much, or fear so much," said the Warden, "from the circumstances of life?" May turned her head away and said nothing. "Why demand that life shall be made so easy?" Here he paused again. "Some of us," he went on, "want to be converted, in the Evangelical sense; in other words, some of us want to be given a sudden inspiring illumination, an irresistible motive for living the good life, a motive that will make virtue easy." May looked down into the fire and waited for him to go on. "Some of us demand a love that will make marriage easy, smooth for our temper, flattering to our vanity. Some demand"--and here there was a touch of passion in his voice that made May's heart heavy and sick--"they demand that it should be made easy to be faithful." And she gave no answer. "Isn't it our business to accept the circumstances of life, love among them, and refuse either to be shaped by them or shattered by them? But you will accuse me of being hyper-critical at a tea-party, of arguing on ethics when I should have been thinking of--of nothing particular." This was his Apologia. After this there would be silence. He would be Gwendolen's husband. May tried to gather up all her self-possession. "You don't agree with me?" he asked to break her obstinate silence.