“Love?” he said. “My God, there’s no man in the world worthy of you. Alice, I thought you were really in trouble yesterday, and I wanted to help you—is it that?” “Is it—what?” “Are you in love, and—are things going wrong? Perhaps I can’t help you really, but at any rate I can sympathize.” “Yes,” she answered, still looking at him. He had never realized fully the beauty of her face, softened now from its wonted passivity, or the deep splendor of her eyes. “I do love, so I _can_ understand.” “I’m so sorry,” he said, angry with himself at the downright incompetency of his words. “You needn’t be. I didn’t know how incomplete my life was until—I loved. It’s made me happy. Doesn’t it help you, too? Even though it must be hopeless?” “Yes, it’s strange; I didn’t know until last night that I really did love anyone. When I said good-by to her—at the theater—I walked home, and I sat alone by my fire and thought. A lot of things I hadn’t understood came clear, and now—I hardly think I’m the same man I was yesterday. But—I know myself too well; I shall soon drift back to what I was. If she loved me—it would be different. Now, don’t talk any more about myself. Tell me—can I help you in any way?” “Yes, you can.” “How? I’m so glad. You’re such a thundering good sort that—I’d give a great deal to be able to do you a good turn. What a fool the fellow must be!” “You can help me a great deal, by helping me to honor and respect the man—I love.” “Why,” he asked, puzzled and surprised, “how can I do that?” “By remembering what I’ve said about not lowering yourself.” Still she looked straight at him, and he at her. Gradually he came to understand what she meant. “Alice—it’s me you love! No, don’t answer me till I’ve spoken. I told you that I found myself last night, and found out that I loved a woman, really and truly loved her. You’re the woman, Alice, but I never dreamed that you could care for me. Tell me now—is it me?” There was no necessity for her to speak. The light in her eyes was more eloquent than any words could have been, and careless whether anyone was watching, he seized her hands in his. “Alice, you do love me?” Then he drew himself apart quickly, saying: “I forgot.” “What is it?” “Agatha.” “I don’t pretend not to know what you mean,” she said slowly. “Do you think I haven’t thought of her? If she had loved you, or been able to love you, you should never have known. But as things are—there’s only one way—we love.” CHAPTER XXIV MARIAN was very angry at West’s unexpected desertion after the theater. When she reached home she sat down by the bright fire in the drawing room, which she had told the servant to keep up well, and gave full rein to her disappointment.