“Something you’d like to keep.” “Is it the mouse? Bunny, how can we find it? That was a lifetime ago.” “Perhaps it’s in the nursery. In the old toy cupboard.” “I’ll get it in the morning.” “That may be too late. Now, to-night.” “Oh Bunny, tell me plainly. Is it the mouse you mean?” She was tugging fiercely to raise the screen, jammed in its grooves. Her fingers still tingled from the sharp edges of the shallow metal sockets. Only the empty garden, the sinking candy-peel moon beyond the black arc of hill. The impression was vivid upon her. There was only one thing to do, she must go through the sleeping house to Martin’s room, rouse him, tell him at once. She rose from bed and opened the door. * * * * * He was there, holding out his hand; motionless as though he had been waiting so all the shining night. She took it mechanically. “Who is it?” she said. “Who else could it be?” But at first she had thought it was Martin, somehow warned by Bunny. They stood aghast of one another, in silence, awkwardly holding hands. It was not like a meeting, it was like a good-bye. The declining moonlight limned her cloudily. But this was no silly dream. He saw her revealed in all her wistful beauty, meant from the beginning for him. “George, we must get Martin out of the house----” Martin again. Evidently, he thought, the gods intend to wring the last drop of comedy out of me. “Damn Martin,” he said softly. “Joyce, I didn’t find you at last to talk about _him_. Dear, I told you we’d know it if the time came.” Was this what Bunny meant by giving? I have nothing to give. The Me he loves has gone somewhere. How can I tell him? Instead of the imagined joy and communion there’s only horror. And I want so to love him. He had carried her to the couch and was kneeling beside her. Oh, if I could lay down the burden of this heavy, heavy love. If I could love him gladly, not just bitterly. Is this the only way to save him from knowing? Such a little thing, that I wanted to keep for myself. She turned from him convulsively and buried her face in the pillow. He mustn’t see my tears. The cruellest thing is he’ll think I don’t love him. No man was ever so loved. But I gave myself, long ago, to the dream of him. I can’t mix it with the reality. She turned, in a mercy of pure tenderness. “George, dear George, I meant what I said.”