Kent felt bound to fall in with Winifred's friendly fable, although his honesty shrank a little from accepting what was not its due. “There is always something sad in leave-taking,” said Clytie. The remark was trite and commonplace; but so is a kiss or a grasp of the hand or the words “Good-bye, dear,” themselves. The original generally brings more titillation than comfort. “This leave-taking is sadder than most--to me,” said Kent. “And to me too,” said Clytie. “It marks the end of the old life--a very pleasant one. Kent,” she went on after a short reflective pause, “I want to tell you something: I reproached you a little in my heart--last month. I don't now. I haven't the right. Winifred said she had let you know of my engagement. If our parting had not come from you, it would have come now from me.” “I see now; it was bound to come sooner or later,” replied Kent, much moved. “Oh, my God! what puppets we are. But I wish you happiness, from my heart, in your new life. You will always be to me the one woman whom”--he was going to add, “I could love,” but he checked himself and quickly substituted, “who has taught me what there is in women.” “Ah, my dear Kent,” returned Clytie with a touch of her brightness and charm, “there will be someone nicer than I who will teach you better. You, too, must have happiness, you know. You will marry soon----” “I marry!” cried Kent, wheeling round to face her. “How can you say that!” They looked at one another, each misunderstanding. He was wounded at her treating his love as a thing of no account. She was puzzled at his implied contradiction of her theory. “I thought I had discovered the reason for your wishing to break off our intimacy--but I find I was wrong.” “I don't understand,” said Kent, agitated. “I acted foolishly, very foolishly and rudely. Yet I only did it to save you pain. To break with you cost me the dearest thing I had in the world. Surely you must be aware of that.” “You did not break it because you suddenly--during my absence--wished to form other ties?” A light broke upon Kent, like a flash of lightning over a desolate wilderness. All of this heart-burning, then, was for nothing. She had never suspected that he loved her. A sense of the futility of things crushed him for a moment. “I am not a man to fall in love readily,” he replied in a low voice. “Then,” said Clytie earnestly, “I am at fault. Why did you not answer my letter? Why did you shun me? Why were you so constrained when we met? Why did you tear yourself out of my daily life?”