He followed more slowly. His gaze, travelling round the pretty room, fell on his own photograph in uniform on the mantelpiece. He had sent her the photograph from England, and it pleased him to see it there. From the photograph his eyes went to her face and rested there, smiling and confident. She stood facing the light, looking shy and a little overcome at seeing him. Although she had been expecting him she felt oddly unprepared. Everything seemed to have changed with his appearance. He loomed large and substantial in the forefront of her thoughts, a person to be reckoned with, no longer the vague figure which had hovered indistinctly amid the confusion of her mind. Deliberately she moved to the sofa and sat down, and the dog came and lay at her feet. Sinclair seated himself beside her and played with the dog's ears. "I've a feeling," he said, without looking at her, "that all this is unreal. It's been a sort of make-believe with me that I was with you over there. I've talked with you, told you things in dumb show, often. I've pretended that you were present and could hear and respond. Now I'm half afraid to look at you for fear you'll vanish. Absurd, isn't it?" "Poor dear!" she said, and touched his hand gently. He looked up then and smiled at her. "You know you haven't altered a bit since the days when we began our friendship amid the heights." "Ah!" she said, and the light in her eyes faded. "I feel as though I had no connection with that girl at all. It's not only the years which alter us, George. You've been through experiences; they've changed you. Both of us look on life more seriously now. We were boy and girl in those old days of which you speak. I don't care to look back." "I don't wish you to look back," he said; "I want you to look forward-- with me. Esme, you know what my hope is? I've besieged you for years. Can't you give me a different answer, dear? I've waited so long. It seems to me we are both of us rather lonely people. Why won't you end all that, and make me happy?" Again she put out a hand, and this time she slipped it into his. He sat holding it, waiting in an attitude of strained alertness for her answer. "It is because I like you so well," she said, "that I am reluctant to marry you. I can't give you a fair return. My dear, I've loved... There never could be any one else in my life--not in the same way." For a moment he remained silent. He still held her hand; but he was not looking at her; he stared thoughtfully down at the carpet reflecting on what she had said. Then abruptly he released her hand and sat up. "I'll take what you'll give," he said resolutely. She made no answer. She could not speak just then for the emotion which gripped her. There were tears in her eyes. He leaned over her and very tenderly kissed the tears away. Book 4--CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.