He would wait, however, until to-morrow or the next day. Marian would not run away, and perhaps would behave all the better for finding that he was not easily caught. So as they went out of the theater he said: “I hope you won’t think me very rude not asking you to supper, but I’ve an appointment at my club I must keep.” “I think it’s awfully kind of you to have given me such a jolly evening—that’s all I think.” But he knew well enough from the dark look that she could not keep out of her eyes, that she was disappointed and angry. It amused him, and assured him that he had only to ask and she would give. She clenched her teeth angrily as the hansom spun along homeward. She had meant that he should ride by her side this night. CHAPTER XXIII THE next morning West walked as usual through the Park, and to his surprise again met Alice Lane, who greeted him cordially. “You offered me the chance of a talk with you yesterday,” she said abruptly, “and I was rude enough to refuse. Will you give me another chance?” “Why, of course you know I will,” he answered, eyeing her keenly, wondering if after all she were about to tell him that he could help her in the difficulty created by her brother’s engagement; hoping, indeed, that it was so. He had walked home the night before, and had sat up late over the fire, thinking the whole while about her. It had been borne in upon him that in reality he did love her; not as he had loved other women from mere physical attraction, but with a strong, deep affection that made her necessary to him, as he now understood. So long as she did not care for anyone else, so long as he could have her frequent companionship and sympathy, he would, he hoped, be content. So far as anything else could be, he had given a hostage to fortune; his wife stood between him and the one woman who had raised his desires above mere sensuality. “You were at the theater last night,” she said. He laughed as he answered: “So were you. I saw you and you saw me.” “Yes, it was a stupid remark. I was going to say that I know who was the woman with you.” She spoke nervously, hesitatingly, in strong contrast to her usual quiet, serene way of speaking. “I saw her at Brighton with Mr. Maddison, and Agatha told me about her. But even if I’d not heard anything about her, I should have known _what_ she is. Are you disgusted at my talking like this? Are you going to tell me—quite kindly, I know—to mind my own business? I think it _is_ my business. I’m your friend, and with me friendship doesn’t mean sitting by and watching a friend—lowering himself.” “You’re a real friend,” he said, holding out his hand and pressing hers—“a real friend. But friendship’s blind as well as love. You put me higher than I am; I’m not lowering myself.” “Not higher than you were once, at any rate. And what you were once, you can be again. You don’t love Agatha, then?” He hesitated a moment before replying.