Recalling the swift and painful writing of the story it would seem I saw them again two days later, and that she was occupied in making amends. They had talked and grown in intimacy, and now it was Sunday evening. They were in the music room at Carbies, and she had been playing to him while he sat spellbound, listening to and adoring her. She was in that grey silk dress with the white muslin fichu finished with a pink rose, her pale hair was parted in the middle and she wore her Saint Cecilia expression. She left off playing presently, came over to him with swift grace and sank on the footstool at his feet. “What are you thinking about? You are not vexed with me still?” “Was I ever vexed with you?” “Yesterday afternoon, when I said I was disappointed in you.” “Not vexed, surely not vexed, only infinitely grieved, startled.” “Have you enjoyed your visit, notwithstanding that strange slow beginning? Tell me, have you been happy?” “Have you?” “I don’t know. I don’t quite know. I have been so excited, restless. I have not wanted any one else. It is difficult for me to know myself. Are you still sorry for me, like you were in London?” “My heart goes out to you. You have suffered, but you have great compensations; great gifts. I would sympathise with you, but you make me feel my own limitations. I fear to fail you. You have the happier nature, the wider vision....” “Then you have not been happy?” “Yes, I have, inexpressibly happy. I wish I could tell you. But I matter so little in comparison with you.” “I don’t want you to be humble.” “I am not humble, I am proud.” “Because?” “Because you have taken me for your friend.” He never touched her whilst she sat there at his feet, but his eyes never left her and his voice was deep and tender. They talked of friendship, all the time, they only spoke of friendship. And he was unsure of himself, or of her, more deeply shy than she, and moved, though less able to express it. “Next week you will come again. Will it be the same between us?” “I will come whenever you let me. With me it will always be the same, or more. Sometimes I cannot believe that it is to me this is happening. To me, Gabriel Stanton! What is it you find in me? Sometimes I think it is only your own sweet goodness; that what you expressed in seeing me this time you will find again and again—disappointment; that I am not the man you think me, the man you need.” “Am I what you thought I would be? Are you satisfied with me?” “I am overpowered with you.” She stole a look at him. His close and thin-lipped mouth had curves that were wholly new, his sunken eyes were lit up. She was secretly enraptured with him. “I thought you very grave and severe when I first came to the office. What did you think of me?” “What I do now, that you were wonderful. After you left I could not settle to work ... but I have told you this.”