She rose listlessly, and sat down opposite him. "It's a rotten supper--I don't cook so well as Novice Unity Agnes." "Nonsense! you cook quite well enough for me. Janey--will you come and cook for me in London?" "In London?"--she stared at him blankly. "Yes, I must go back to my work--and I can't leave you here." "But--but--I don't understand--and what shall we do about the farm?" "We can sell it, and the money will keep us--just the two of us in a workman's flat--till my training is over, and I'm earning money on my own. Oh, Janey, I don't suppose I'll ever be rich or famous or that I'll fill the Albert Hall--but I--I shall be more worthy of you, dear." "Of me!"--she laughed. "Yes. Don't you understand? I've got my dream back again--but there's an empty place in it.... Will you fill it, Janey?" She looked questioningly at him with her great haggard eyes. "Who left it empty?" "Tony Strife," he said in a low voice. "Nigel!..." She rose to her feet and came to him. "My poor, poor boy." Her pity, the first he had received, had an unexpected effect on him. It nearly unmanned him--he put up his hands to her neck, and drew down her face to him, while his body shuddered. "Nigel ... did she know?" "No, never--thank God!" She stroked his hair, and held his head against her breast. "It was a hopeless dream, Janey." She could not contradict him. "But it helped me." "Then it was a good dream." He gently slipped himself free. "And now we'll say no more about it." After supper Janey asked Nigel to play to her. He often used to play to her in the evenings, to relieve the aching weight of agony that gathered on her with the dusk. She lay back in the armchair, her eyes closed, wondering why Nigel's music, which she had used sometimes to hate, soothed her so inexpressibly now. She always asked him to play when she felt her heart was becoming hard--music seemed to melt down that stony sense of outrage which sometimes grew like a cancer into her thoughts. She would not, dared not, have a hard heart, and music was the only thing at present that could keep it soft. She thought with gathering tears of the confession her brother had just made her, but she would not let her mind dwell on it--somehow she felt he would not like it. The episode did not belong to the surface of things, it belonged to the hidden life of a secret man, a holy, hopeless thing, to be guarded from the prying even of reverent thoughts. She knew that though she and Nigel might often talk together of her sorrow, they would never talk of his.