And then suddenly her door opened softly, and Rose came in in her nightdress, and stood looking in sleepy surprise at the motionless figure seated on the bed. She advanced to the bed and sat down beside the girl and started a whispered conversation. "I heard you come in," she said. "Jim's asleep. Have you had a good time? Why don't you get to bed?" "I forgot," Esme said, and began to unfasten her dress. Rose became actively helpful. "You are tired," she said. "What's the matter, dear?" She took the girl's face between her hands and scrutinised it closely. "Esme, what has happened? I wish you'd confide in me more." The gentle reproach in her sister's voice, acting on her overwrought nerves, caused the tears, so near the surface, to overflow. She dropped her face on to Rose's shoulder and wept softly. "Did George say anything to you to-night?" Rose asked, feeling increasingly surprised. She had not wept when Jim proposed to her. She remembered quite vividly that she had felt elated and very excited. She had wanted to speak of it, to tell people. She could not fathom Esme's mood. "Is that the trouble, little goose?" she asked. "I knew--we all knew-- he meant to propose." Whereupon Esme lifted her face and turned her tear-wet eyes on the speaker in wide amaze. "You knew!" she said. "Well, I didn't. I wish I had known. I thought he was just a pal." "A pal makes a good husband," Rose said thoughtfully, with the first glimmer of doubt in her mind as to what answer her sister had returned. "It's all right, isn't it?" "It's all wrong," Esme answered ruefully, and dabbed at her eyes,--"just as wrong as it can be. He's hurt; and I hate hurting him. I like him so well. But I don't love him, Rose." "You don't mean that you refused him?" "Of course I mean that. I couldn't marry George." "Why not?" Rose inquired blankly. When no response came to her question, she caught her sister's arm and turned her towards her and looked her steadily in the eyes. "Tell me," she said quietly, "what there is between you and Paul Hallam? You've changed since you knew him. You are more reserved, and you've lost your high spirits. Who is Paul Hallam? And why does he write to you? What is he to you?" "He is just a friend," Esme answered. "You love him," Rose said. "Do you think I am so dense as not to have discovered that? You can trust me. I've not let Jim guess that I know who your correspondent is. I've kept your counsel all the time; it's your affair. But I think you might tell me." Esme made a gesture that was at once a protest and an appeal. She sat straighter, with her hands locked together in her lap, and stared out at the moonlight unseeingly. "I'd tell you if there was anything to tell," she said. "There isn't. There has never been any talk of love between us ever. We are just good friends." "But you love him?" Rose persisted.