At any other time, in any other mood, the action would have stirred her sense of the ridiculous. She would have laughed and whipped him with sarcasm. He had done exuberant things before and left her unmoved except to mirth. But this time she raised him up without a word, and he answered her touch with curious unresistance, like a man hypnotized and stood speechless, but with eyes that were filled with eloquence. "Be good to-night, Gilbert," she said. "I've ... I've been awfully hurt to-day and I feel tired and worn--not up to fencing with you." The word "fencing" didn't strike home at first, nor did he gather at once from her simple appeal that she had not come in the mood that he had persuaded himself was hers. "This is the first time that you've given me even an hour since you drew me to the Hosacks," he said. "Be generous. Don't do things by halves." She could say nothing to that. She was there only because of a desire to make up ever so little for having teased him. He had been consistently generous to her. She had hoped, from his manner, that he was simply going to be nice and kind and not indulge in romantics. She was wrong, evidently. It was no new thing, though. She was well accustomed to his being dramatic and almost foreign. He had said many amazing things but always remained the civilized man, and never attempted to make a scene. She liked him for that, and she had tried him pretty high, she knew. She did wish that he would be good that night, but there was nothing to say in reply to his appeal. And so she went over to one of the pews and sat down among the cushions. "I'll give you another hour, then," she said. But the word had begun to rankle. "Fencing!--Fencing! ..." He repeated it several times. She watched him wander oddly about the room, thinking aloud rather than speaking to her. How different he had become. For the first time it dawned upon her that the whole look of the man had undergone a change. He held himself with less affectation. His petulance had gone. He was like a Gilbert Palgrave who had been ill and had come out of it with none of his old arrogance. He took up a cigarette and began wandering again, muttering her unfortunate word. She was sorry to have hurt his feelings. It was the very last thing that she had wanted to do. "Aren't there any matches?" she asked. "Ring for some." She was impatient of indecision. He drew up and looked at her. "Ring? Why? No one will come." "Are we the only people in the house, then?" "Yes," he said. "That's part of my plan." "Plan?" She was on her feet. "What do you mean? Have you thought all this out and made a scheme of it?" "Yes; all out," he said. "The moment has come, Joan."