He perceived instantly that if he borrowed it he would have an excuse for visiting her again in order to return it. And perhaps then, more easily than now, he could tell her the secret that was almost bursting his heart. "Thanks," he said, gratefully, and as she helped him into the coat she said: "Ask the boy to bring it back here when he calls for the orders in the morning." He could have cried at her saying that. The terror came on him feverishly, intolerably, the terror of leaving her, of living the rest of life without a sight or a knowledge of her. He could not bear it; the longing was too great--he could not put it away from him. And she was near him for the last time, her hands upon his arms as she helped him into the coat. She did not want him to call again. It was quite plain. He had to speak. He said, almost at the front door: "Clare, do you know the real reason why I don't love Helen any more?" He thought he heard her catch her breath sharply. Then, after a pause, she said rather curtly: "Yes, of course I do. Don't tell me." "What!" In the darkness he was suddenly alive. "_What_! You know! You know the real reason! You _don't_! You think you do, but you don't! I'll warrant you don't! You don't know everything!" And the calm voice answered: "I know everything about you." "You don't know that I love you!" (_There_! It was spoken now; a great weight was taken off his heart, no matter whether she should be annoyed or not! His heart beat wildly in exultation at having thrown off its secret at long last.) She answered: "Yes, I know that. But I didn't want you to tell me."