"It does tell." Anne was thinking it would always tell. And that, too, would be John Charteris's handiwork. Ensued a silence. Rudolph Musgrave was painstakingly intent upon his cigarette. A nestward-plunging bird called to his mate impatiently. Then Anne shook her head impatiently. "Come, while I'm thinking, I will drive you back to Lichfield." "Oh, no; that wouldn't do at all," he said, with absolute decision. "No, you see I have to return the boy. And I can't quite imagine your carriage waiting at the doors of 'that Mrs. Pendomer.'" "Oh," Anne fleetingly thought, "_he_ would have understood." But aloud she only said: "And do you think I hate her any longer? Yes, it is true I hated her until to-day, and now I'm just sincerely sorry for her. For she and I--and you and even the child yonder--and all that any of us is to-day--are just so many relics of John Charteris. Yet he has done with us--at last!" She said this with an inhalation of the breath; but she did not look at him. "Take care!" he said, with an unreasonable harshness. "For I forewarn you I am imagining vain things." "I'm not afraid, somehow." But Anne did not look at him. He saw as with a rending shock how like the widow of John Charteris was to Anne Willoughby; and unforgotten pulses, very strange and irrational and dear, perplexed him sorely. He debated, and flung aside the cigarette as an out-moded detail of his hobbling part. "You say I did a noble thing for you. I tried to. But quixotism has its price. To-day I am not quite the man who did that thing. John Charteris has set his imprint too deep upon us. We served his pleasure. We are not any longer the boy and girl who loved each other." She waited in the rising twilight with a yet averted face. The world was motionless, ineffably expectant, as it seemed to him. And the disposition of all worldly affairs, the man dimly knew, was very anciently prearranged by an illimitable and, upon the whole, a kindly wisdom. So that, "My dear, my dear!" he swiftly said: "I don't think I can word just what my feeling is for you. Always my view of the world has been that you existed, and that some other people existed--as accessories--" Then he was silent for a heart-beat, appraising her. His hands lifted toward her and fell within the moment, as if it were in impotence. Anne spoke at last, and the sweet voice of her was very glad and proud and confident. "My friend, remember that I have not thanked you. You have done the most foolish and--the manliest thing I ever knew a man to do, just for my sake. And I have accepted it as if it were a matter of course. And I shall always do so. Because it was your right to do this very brave and foolish thing for me. I know you joyed in doing it. Rudolph ... you cannot understand how glad I am you joyed in doing it."