“It’s my sister,” he smiled; but he could not keep an appeal out of his eyes. “Why shouldn’t you?” he asked suddenly. “It will be hateful for you here, for all your courage. And you’ll be fighting what? Just shadows, and you’ll expend all your strength in it. What good will it do you or anybody? You want rest, real rest, of body and soul.” She met his eyes. “Do I look so woebegone?” “The sight of you now is enough to break the heart of any one who cares for you, Olivia,” he said soberly. “It’s merely a question of sleeplessness. That’ll pass off.” “It will pass off quicker in the country,” he urged. “It will be a break. The house will be yours. Mary and I, the discreetest shadows. You don’t know the self-effacing dear that Mary is. Besides, she is one of those women who is a living balm for the wounded. To look at her is to draw love and comforting from her.” He ventured the tips of his fingers on her slender shoulders. “Do come. Your old room shall be yours, just as you left it. Or the room I have always kept sacred.” She stood by the fireplace, her arm on the mantelshelf, looking away from him. “Or, if you like,” he went on, “we’ll clear out—we only want a few days—and give you back your old home all to yourself.” She stretched out a groping hand; he took it. “I know you would,” she said. “It’s—it’s beautiful of you. I’m not surprised, because—” she swayed head and shoulders a bit, seeking for words, her eyes away from him, “—because, after that first day at Medlow, I have never thought of you as doing otherwise than what was beautiful and noble. It sounds silly. But I mean it.” She withdrew her hand and walked away into the room, her back towards him. He strode after her. “That’s foolishness. I’m only an ordinary, decent sort of man. In the circumstances, good Lord! I couldn’t do less.” She faced him in the middle of the room. “And I as an ordinary, decent woman, couldn’t do less than what I’ve said.” “Well?” said he. They stood for a few seconds eye to eye. A faint colour came into her cheeks, and she smiled. “Don’t suppose I’m not tempted. I am. But if I came, you’d spoil me. I’ve got to fight.” This valiant attitude he could not induce her to abandon. At last, with a pathetic air of disappointment, he said: “If I can help you in any other way, and you won’t let me, I shall be hurt.” “Oh, I’ll let you,” she cried impulsively. “You may be sure. Who else is there?” He went away comforted. Yet he did not return to Medlow. These early days, he argued, were critical. Anything might happen, and it would be well for him to remain within call.