And when she ceased to please him, what then? Had he the tradition of faith to the spoken vow, or the deeper piety of the unspoken dedication? What was his theory, what his inner conviction in such matters? But what did she care for his convictions or his theories? No doubt he loved her now, and believed he would always go on loving her, and was persuaded that, if he ceased to, his loyalty would be proof against the change. What she wanted to know was not what he thought about it in advance, but what would impel or restrain him at the crucial hour. She put no faith in her own arts: she was too sure of having none! And if some beneficent enchanter had bestowed them on her, she knew now that she would have rejected the gift. She could hardly conceive of wanting the kind of love that was a state one could be cozened into... Darrow, putting away the frame, walked across the room and sat down beside her; and she felt he had something special to say. “They’re sure to send for me in a day or two now,” he began. She made no answer, and he continued: “You’ll tell me before I go what day I’m to come back and get you?” It was the first time since his return to Givre that he had made any direct allusion to the date of their marriage; and instead of answering him she broke out: “There’s something I’ve been wanting you to know. The other day in Paris I saw Miss Viner.” She saw him flush with the intensity of his surprise. “You sent for her?” “No; she heard from Adelaide that I was in Paris and she came. She came because she wanted to urge me to marry you. I thought you ought to know what she had done.” Darrow stood up. “I’m glad you’ve told me.” He spoke with a visible effort at composure. Her eyes followed him as he moved away. “Is that all?” he asked after an interval. “It seems to me a great deal.” “It’s what she’d already asked me.” His voice showed her how deeply he was moved, and a throb of jealousy shot through her. “Oh, it was for your sake, I know!” He made no answer, and she added: “She’s been exceedingly generous...Why shouldn’t we speak of it?” She had lowered her head, but through her dropped lids she seemed to be watching the crowded scene of his face. “I’ve not shrunk from speaking of it.” “Speaking of her, then, I mean. It seems to me that if I could talk to you about her I should know better----” She broke off, confused, and he questioned: “What is it you want to know better?” The colour rose to her forehead. How could she tell him what she scarcely dared own to herself? There was nothing she did not want to know, no fold or cranny of his secret that her awakened imagination did not strain to penetrate; but she could not expose Sophy Viner to the base fingerings of a retrospective jealousy, nor Darrow to the temptation of belittling her in the effort to better his own case. The girl had been magnificent, and the only worthy return that Anna could make was to take Darrow from her without a question if she took him at all...