"That was a splendid sermon, Arnold," she said, with an effort at enthusiasm, and a subconscious question as to whether she really meant what she said. Imrie was thoughtful. "I did my best. The congregation seemed to like it. But it could be done much better." "So could most things." "Perfection is no trifle, is it," he smiled. "But let's not talk of such dreadful things as sermons. I haven't seen you for ages...." "Six weeks, to be exact," she interrupted. "Exactly!" he thanked her with his eyes for the implication, and woman-like, she took away his pleasure deliberately. "The accident happened the day after you left." "Oh." He was silent for a moment. "That was a splendid thing, Judith--your taking that fellow in. Just like you. But hasn't he been something of a--well, a care?" "On the contrary. I've enjoyed him intensely." "But don't you find him--a little uncouth?" he persisted. "Yes--very. But a little roughness is a relief after too much polish, isn't it?" "Yes, of course," he admitted. "But you wouldn't confess even if you had been put out. And that's like you, too." He looked at her with an expression in his eyes, the meaning of which there could be no doubt. "Let's go out on the porch," she said abruptly. "It's so stuffy in here." The moon was full and it shone over a picture of loveliness. Below them, as they sat on the stone balustrade of the terrace, stretched Judith's immaculate gardens, redolent with the soft perfume of sweet pea and mignonette. As the breeze faintly stirred the leaves, the shadows danced fantastically on the sod. Over in the velvet depths of the sunken tennis courts, the fireflies flashed their lanterns incessantly. Somewhere in the distance a guitar sounded now and again, and a woman's voice rose and fell softly. It was very peaceful and pleasant, and Imrie, thinking of the hot city and the morrow, drew a deep sigh. No power on earth could prevent him from going back--but he did not pretend to think that he wanted to go. "Don't you ever wonder what those crickets are saying?" asked Judith, conscious instinctively that her companion's eyes still burned with the same light. "Just listen to them." "I'd rather have you listen to me," said Imrie in a choking voice, as if struggling to control himself. Suddenly his hand shot out and caught hers in a grip like iron. "I want to tell you how much I love you!" he whispered passionately. She looked at him for a long time without replying, and he could see by the movement of the shadows on her face, that her lip quivered. Her eyes glistened, too. Then, very slowly and thoughtfully, she withdrew her hand. "It isn't fair, it isn't fair," she repeated dully. "You promised not to."