She turned her head away, unable to bear the living look in the sightless eyes. "Why did you never tell me?" she asked in a low voice. "Would you have married me?" "You know I would, Roger." "At first I vowed I would say nothing," he said, after a pause, "until I had a fit home to offer you. Then the blindness came, and I vowed I wouldn't speak until I had conquered the helplessness of my affliction. Do you understand?" "Yes, but when you came home a conqueror----" "I loved you too much to marry you. You were far too dear and precious to come into the intimacy of my life. Haven't you seen what happened to all those who did?" He raised his old knotted hands, clenched tightly. "I squeezed them dry. I couldn't help it. My blindness made me a coward. It has been hell. The darkness never ceased to frighten me. I lied when I said it didn't matter. I stretched out my hands like tentacles and gripped everyone within reach in a kind of madness of self-preservation. I made them give up their souls and senses to me. It was some ghastly hypnotic power I seemed to have. When I had got them, they lost volition, individuality. They were about as much living creatures to me as my arm or my foot. Don't you see?" The white-haired woman looked at the old face working passionately, and she felt once more the deadly fear of him. "But with me it would have been different," she faltered. "You say you loved me." "That's the devil of it, my sweet, beautiful Winnie--it wouldn't have been different. I should have squeezed you, too, reduced you to the helpless thing that did my bidding, sucked your life's blood from you. I couldn't have resisted. So I kept you away. Have I ever asked you to use your eyes for me?" Her memory travelled down the years, and she was amazed. She remembered Mr. Jukes at the great shops and many similar incidents that had puzzled her. "No," she said. There was a short silence. The muscles of his face relaxed, and the old, sweet smile came over it. He reached again for her hand and caressed it tenderly. "By putting you out of my life, I kept you, dear. I kept you as the one beautiful human thing I had. Every hour of happiness I have had for the last twenty years has come through you." She said tearfully: "You have been very good to me, Roger." "It's a queer mix-up, isn't it?" he said, after a pause. "Most people would say that I've ruined your life. If it hadn't been for me, you might have married." "No, dear," she replied. "I've had a very full and happy life." The nurse came into the room to signify the end of the visit, and found them hand in hand like lovers. He laughed. "Nurse," said he, "you see a dying but a jolly happy old man!"