"Tell me, please!" she said imperiously. He made a sharp gesture of remonstrance. "Sorry," he said, after a moment, as she waited inexorably. "I can't!" "Oh, but you can!" she returned. "You're not to say you won't to me." He looked down at her. "I am sorry!" he said less brusquely. "But it can't be done. It isn't worth a tussle, I assure you, nor is it worth the possible annoyance it might cause you if you had your way. Look here, can't we talk of something else?" She laid her hand impulsively on his arm. "Tell me, Phil!" she said. He drew back abruptly. "You put me in a beastly position, Mrs. Tudor," he said. "I hate repeating things. It isn't fair to corner me like this." "Don't be absurd!" said Audrey. Her face was flushed and determined. She was bent upon having her own way in this, at least. "I shall begin to hate you in a minute." But Phil could be determined, too. "Can't help it," he said; but there was genuine regret in his voice. "You'll have to, I'm afraid." He was scarcely prepared for the effect of his words. She flung away from him in tempestuous anger and turned as if to leave the room. But before she reached the door some other impulse apparently overtook her. She stopped abruptly with her back to Phil, and stood for what seemed to him interminable seconds, fumbling with her handkerchief. Then, before he had fully realised the approaching catastrophe, her self-control suddenly deserted her. She sank into a chair with her hands over her face and began to cry. Now, Phil was young, and no woman had ever thus abandoned herself to tears in his presence before. The sight sent a sharp shock through him that was almost like a dart of physical pain. It paralysed him for an instant; but the next he strode forward, convention flung to the winds, desirous only to comfort. He reached her and bent over her, one hand upon her shaking shoulder. "I say, Mrs. Tudor, don't--don't!" he urged. "What is the matter? You're not crying because I wouldn't do as you asked me? You couldn't care all that for such a trifle?" His voice was husky with agitation. He felt guiltily that it was all his fault, and he could have kicked himself for his clumsiness. She did not answer him, nor did her sobs grow less. It was the pent-up misery of weeks to which she was giving vent, and, having yielded, it was no easy matter to check herself again. Phil became desperate and knelt down by her side, almost as distressed as she. "I say," he pleaded--"I say, Audrey, don't cry! Tell me what is wrong. Let me help you. Give me a chance, anyhow. I--I'd do anything in the world, you know. Only tell me." He drew one of her hands away from her face and held it between his own. She did not resist him. Her need of a comforter just then was very great. Her head was bowed almost against his shoulder and it did not occur to either of them that they were transgressing the most elementary laws of conventionality.