"Would it hurt you to tell me about it?" she asked, and the flood-gates were opened. All the rankling memories which Gerrard could no more have confided to James Antony than that worthy man could have comprehended them if he had, all the unavailing self-reproach--"If I had only done this!" "If I had not said that!"--all the self-depreciation which the persistent dwelling on Charteris's qualities produced naturally in the man who differed so much from him, were poured into Honour's ear. "And the very last evening I was fool enough to take offence because he saw quicker than I did what was the right thing to be done! Do you think he turned rusty? Not a bit of it. He took it like a brick--actually apologised for offering me advice! There was never any one like him." "No, I suppose not," said Honour softly. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not ask herself whether Charteris's virtues or Gerrard's account of them had brought them there. She took it for granted that it was the former, and spoke accordingly. "And the worst of it is, we don't realise what our friends are until we lose them," she murmured. "No, indeed we don't. One sees one's own unworthiness now, when it is too late--when the remembrance of what he was makes a barrier for ever----" "A barrier--yes, of course; but a bond, too." This was a state of mind which Honour could thoroughly understand and appreciate. A life-long romantic friendship, absolutely precluded from becoming anything more, was just what appealed to her. It suggested what may be termed the Rolandseck ideal--the hero retiring from the world to an eligible hermitage, affording an extensive view of a desirably situated nunnery, where the heroine was similarly secluded--which, with its peculiar blending of religion and sentimentality, animated so many of her favourite books. "We can never forget that we have both known him, can we? You will tell me more about him, and we will keep his memory alive when all the world has forgotten him." Whether the relief of unburdening his mind had served to clear her hearer's vision, or merely that the thought of the real Bob Charteris, most unsentimental of men, obtruded itself in all its incongruity with Honour's scheme for commemorating him, certain it is that instead of being grateful to her for falling in so exactly with his wishes, Gerrard was conscious of a distinct impatience. Was there no flesh and blood about the girl--no feeling, but merely sentiment? All unknown to himself, Gerrard had not been intending to suffer alone, and it was a blow to discover that what had meant to him a real and terrible renunciation was to her a mere matter of course, rather pleasurable than otherwise. He groaned as the truth forced itself upon him, and Honour looked up in alarm. "I have done you harm--tired you," she said anxiously. "We must have another talk when you are better. I see my mother looking for me."