Her eyes looked as though she had left them on guard somewhere, watching something for her. But he didn’t notice that. He was one of those feverish men who never notice anything but other people’s feverishness, at which they feel aggrieved. “See, Joan,” he began nervously. “You and I have been living a lie for two years. There’s no getting out of it--for two whole years! We’ve drugged ourselves and each other with saying we couldn’t help it----” “_You_ have,” she murmured. “I don’t need drugs.” “Yes, _I_ have,” he agreed quickly. “And you have let me. Because there was nothing we could do--so we said.” And suddenly he broke off, and put his hand on her knee. “Do you love me, Joan?” “Yes,” she said, no more, for Joan’s love was never expressed in words, she was not like that. But it was his particular effeminacy, to be intensely pleased to hear her say she loved him. He would glow, _de profundis_. One of two people in love must be effeminate, after all. “That’s been my one excuse,” he said shyly. “And it’s my justification now for what I must do--that we’ve loved each other for two years and still love each other. I’m going to ask Ralph to-night to give you your freedom....” “So that’s why you haven’t been to see me for a week!” “Yes. I wanted to be free to think. You influence me frightfully, Joan, you’re stronger than I am, and so if I was to think our way out of this muddle I had to do it alone. Ralph was my best friend. And for two years you and I have been meeting each other secretly for lunch and for the afternoons, and at home you’ve been living this lie with Ralph. You’ve sort of crucified yourself, Joan, because you didn’t want to hurt Ralph. And I’ve let you! It’s ghastly. And Ralph has always trusted us together, he’s made it easy for us. It’s ghastly, Joan.” “Yes, it’s ghastly,” she murmured from her heart. “Joan,” her lover whispered, “in the secret book in which our lives are being written, you will appear as an angel and I as a cad. For that is how it has been for two years....” And Hugo Carr of the sombre eyes and the thin face that looked as though a fever lay behind it passed a hand across his eyes; and her arm crept up round his shoulder, and she held his face very near. “Poor darling!” she whispered. “You’ve suffered frightfully, haven’t you?” And she did little things to comfort him. “But you’ve suffered much more,” he whispered into her hair. He kissed her hair. “And I’ve let you--go on not _hurting_ Ralph! And what good has it done? Ralph suspects me. I know he does. It’s difficult to explain....” “But it will be all right now,” Joan soothed his wretchedness. He turned her face to him and looked into her eyes, the grave eyes that looked as though she had left them on guard somewhere, watching something for her. “So you do agree with me now, Joan?” he whispered gladly. But she seemed to answer irrelevantly, with a peculiar little laugh she had, which stabbed his heart with a pleasure that was almost pain.