Darrow, before answering, waited long enough to get his words into the tersest shape--not without a sense, as he did so, of his likeness to the surgeon deliberately poising his lancet for a clean incision. “I’m not sure,” he replied, “of its being the best thing for either of you.” She took the stroke steadily, but a faint red swept her face like the reflection of a blush. She continued to keep her lowered eyes on the screen. “From whose point of view do you speak?” “Naturally, that of the persons most concerned.” “From Owen’s, then, of course? You don’t think me a good match for him?” “From yours, first of all. I don’t think him a good match for you.” He brought the answer out abruptly, his eyes on her face. It had grown extremely pale, but as the meaning of his words shaped itself in her mind he saw a curious inner light dawn through her set look. She lifted her lids just far enough for a veiled glance at him, and a smile slipped through them to her trembling lips. For a moment the change merely bewildered him; then it pulled him up with a sharp jerk of apprehension. “I don’t think him a good match for you,” he stammered, groping for the lost thread of his words. She threw a vague look about the chilly rain-dimmed room. “And you’ve brought me here to tell me why?” The question roused him to the sense that their minutes were numbered, and that if he did not immediately get to his point there might be no other chance of making it. “My chief reason is that I believe he’s too young and inexperienced to give you the kind of support you need.” At his words her face changed again, freezing to a tragic coldness. She stared straight ahead of her, perceptibly struggling with the tremor of her muscles; and when she had controlled it she flung out a pale-lipped pleasantry. “But you see I’ve always had to support myself!” “He’s a boy,” Darrow pushed on, “a charming, wonderful boy; but with no more notion than a boy how to deal with the inevitable daily problems ... the trivial stupid unimportant things that life is chiefly made up of.” “I’ll deal with them for him,” she rejoined. “They’ll be more than ordinarily difficult.” She shot a challenging glance at him. “You must have some special reason for saying so.” “Only my clear perception of the facts.” “What facts do you mean?” Darrow hesitated. “You must know better than I,” he returned at length, “that the way won’t be made easy to you.” “Mrs. Leath, at any rate, has made it so.” “Madame de Chantelle will not.” “How do YOU know that?” she flung back. He paused again, not sure how far it was prudent to reveal himself in the confidence of the household. Then, to avoid involving Anna, he answered: “Madame de Chantelle sent for me yesterday.” “Sent for you--to talk to you about me?” The colour rose to her forehead and her eyes burned black under lowered brows. “By what right, I should like to know? What have you to do with me, or with anything in the world that concerns me?”