She sat musing over it. The clock struck ten. To sit on and on was like waiting for him! She resented the thought bitterly. She rose from her chair, meaning to take the book up with her to her room. To have it beside her would be a little consolation. She would read it through again the last thing before trying to sleep. She was already walking to the door, very slowly, her will compelling unwilling limbs. "You are just going?" said the Warden's voice. He had suddenly opened the door and stood before her. "I was going," she said, and held on to the book, open as it was at the last page. "Have you just come back from dinner?" "I have just come back," he said, and he closed the door behind him. But he stayed near the door, for May was standing just where she had stood when he came in, the book in her hand. "I regretted very much that you should be alone this last evening of your stay----" He paused and looked at her. "I ought to have asked some one to dine with you. I am so little accustomed to guests, but I ought to have thought of it." "I am used to being alone in the evening," said May, now smoothing the page of her book with her free hand. "Except on Saturdays and Sundays, when I go to friends of mine, I am usually alone--and generally glad to be, after my day's work. Besides, I have been with Aunt Lena this evening. I only left her an hour ago." He came nearer and stood looking at her and at the book in her hands. He seemed suddenly to recognise the book, and saw that it was open at the last page. "I ought not to have quoted that to you," he said in a low voice; "those words of that poem--there under your hand." "Why not?" she asked, shutting the book up and holding it closed between her hands. "Why shouldn't you have quoted it?" and she looked at the book intently, listening for his voice again. "Because it savoured of self-righteousness, and that was not becoming in a man who had brought his own troubles upon himself." May did not look up at him; she felt, too keenly the poignancy of that brief confession, dignified in its simplicity, a confession that a weaker man would have been afraid to make, and a man of less intelligence could not have made because he would not have understood the dignity of it. May found no words with which to speak to him; she could only look at the carpet stupidly and admire him with all the pulses in her body. "Your interpretation of 'the Glory of the Lord' is the right one; I think--I feel convinced of it." He stood before her, wearing a curiously pathetic expression of diffidence. That moment passed, and then he seemed to force himself back into his old attitude of courteous reserve. "You were just going when I came in," he said, moving and putting out his hand to open the door for her. "I am keeping you." "I was going," said May, "but, Dr. Middleton----" He let his arm drop. "Yes?" he said. "You have, I am afraid, a totally wrong idea of me."