he were going to a theater-party instead of on an
all-night ride to London. But it wasn't her stylishness that impressed
him; it was her littleness. She looked very tender and pale as she sat
beside him. The moral back of her chauffeur, as seen through the glass,
condemned him of unkindness. He had had no right to ask her to accompany
him. Why should he have burdened her with his troubles? She must have
plenty of her own, with her boy to care for and her estate to manage.

"I've been selfish," he said. "You ought to be in bed and sleeping now."

She smiled. "Always blaming yourself, aren't you? I shouldn't be here
unless I'd wanted."

"But why did you want?"

Beneath the robe her hand commenced to grope. It stole into his own and
lay there quietly. "Because I couldn't bear to see you hurt. You're so
good. In some ways you're so strong; in others you're just as tiny as
my Eric. I felt you needed me for the moment."

"For the moment! I shall always need you."

"I wish you might." She shook her head slowly. "But you won't. You'll go
away. I shall hear about you--all the big things you're accomplishing
and planning. And then I shall remember that for just one night I had
you for my very own."

"But we're always going to be friends. I shall be always coming back to
you."

"Men don't come back, Lord Taborley. A man of your temperament is least
likely to come back. You press forward. You're eager. Wherever you go
you form new affections. I'm not like that. I'm cold. You don't think
so, but then I'm treating you as I never treated any other man. You
slipped under my reserve and reached my heart before I could stop you.
Do you know how I'm treating you? Just the way I'd like some good woman
to treat my little Eric one day, when I'm not here and he's a man."

"But you're going to be here for a long time--just as long as I am."
There was alarm in his assertion. "I couldn't bear to think of your not
being in the world. It wouldn't matter so much whether I saw you; it
would be the knowledge that I could see you; that would make all the
difference."

"Would it?"

"Yes, I'm sure. You mustn't think that because there was Terry and--I'm
ashamed to have to own it--a passing fancy for your sister, that I'm
fickle."

"I don't. I never thought it for a moment. What I thought was that you
were unhappy. People do a lot of foolish things when they're unhappy."

"It seems so long since I was unhappy," he said gently. "You've hea