The man caught his breath as he watched her. His brows contracted.

Softly she closed the window and turned. She came back to her chair
by his side, drew forward a little table, and began deftly to arrange
her flowers.

Several seconds passed before Lucas broke the silence. "It does me good
to watch you," he said. "You're always so serene."

She smiled at him across the violets. "You place serenity among the
higher virtues?"

"I do," he said simply. "It's such a restful contrast to the
strenuousness of life. You make me feel just by looking at you that
everything's all right. You bring a peaceful atmosphere in with you,
and"--his voice sank a little--"you take it away again when you go."

The smile went out of her grey eyes at his last words, but the
steadfastness remained. "Then," she said gently, "I must come more often
and stay longer."

But he instantly negatived that. "No--it wouldn't be good for you. It
wouldn't be good for me either to get to lean on you too much. I should
grow exacting."

She saw a gleam of his old smile as he spoke, but it was gone at once,
lost among the countless lines that pain and weariness had drawn of late
upon his face.

"I don't think that is very likely," Anne said. "I can't imagine it."

"Not yet perhaps. I haven't quite reached that stage. Maybe I shall be
down and out before it comes. God grant it!"

The words were too deliberate to cause her any shock. They were,
moreover, not wholly unexpected. There followed a short silence while she
finished arranging her violets. Then very quietly she spoke:

"You say that because you are tired."

"I am more than tired," he answered. "I'm done. I'm beaten. I'm whipped
off the field."

"You think you are not gaining ground?" she questioned.

"My dear Lady Carfax," he said quietly, "it's no use closing one's eyes
to the obvious. I'm losing ground every day--every night."

"But you are not fighting," she said.

"No." He looked at her half-wistfully from under his heavy eyelids. "Do
you think me quite despicable? I've done my best."

She was silent. Perhaps she was not fully prepared to cope with this open
admission of failure.

"I've done my best," he said again. "But it's outlasted my strength. I'm
like a man hanging on to the edge of a precipice. I know every instant
that my grip is slackening, and I can't help it. I've got to drop."

"You haven't done your best yet," Anne said, her voice very low. "You've
got to hold