"And I love you more than ever, Theresa, more every day." He kissed her with a violence that hurt her lips. They parted painfully, and she looked up at him with a tiny crease between her brows, before she thrust her face into his coat, burrowing there, holding fearfully to his arm. "Keep me," she said. "Keep me." He had no words tender enough for her. The appeal swelled his love to a flood too full for turbulence, and he stroked her hair, drew her to his knee and rocked her there, so that she felt secure and was comforted like a child. "But can you keep me?" she said, sitting up with a jerk. "Do you think you can?" "I mean to." "But you won't if you lock me outside yourself. I don't feel that you have quite opened your doors." She hesitated, and spoke. "Basil, I sometimes think there's an enemy of yours after me, and I'm hammering for you to let me in, and you're not quick enough." He laughed. "Who is this enemy?" "Ah, do you think I dare turn round and face him? Open your doors, open your doors?" "They're wide," he said, and spread his arms. "But it's rather a narrow wideness," she said, as she put her head on his shoulder. "One might easily miss it in a hurry." They were quiet for a little while, then Theresa spoke dreamily. "I wish they wouldn't sound the dinner-gong. I never want to move again. Didn't I dress quickly? It was to get back to you. Basil, I like you in this mood." "I'm not in a mood, dear. I'm always like this when you will let me be." "No," she said positively, "you are different. You were an indulgent potentate. Now you are a friend. You can't deceive me." "I don't want to deceive you, but it is you who have changed." "Oh, I hope not!" she said heartily. He laughed: she was teaching him to do that, and the friendly sound mingled with the loud summons of the gong. She screwed up her eyes in merriment. "I really believe you are beginning to appreciate me," she said, and hand in hand they went across the hall. "I am going to show Theresa the plans of the estate, Mother," he said, during the progress of the stately meal. "Certainly, dear. You will like that, Theresa." "I am not at all sure that I shall," she said clearly. "Then don't worry her, Basil, if she doesn't want to see them." "But I do! And if I didn't I would!" "Well, don't get tired, dear. I'm afraid it will make your back ache." "Oh, my back! That was suppled long ago, by a typewriter." "Poor little Theresa," Mrs. Morton murmured, for the servants had left the room. Theresa cracked a nut as though it had been the lady's head. She cast a hot glance at Morton, who was delicately peeling an apple. He looked softly at her. In his eyes there was the tenderness of a pity more understanding and deeper than his mother's: it was pity for all the laborious, independent women in a hard world. The lift of Theresa's head was a signal that Mrs. Morton was growing to fear.