before she
gave that impatient shrug. Then he pulled himself together, and said:

"What has happened to you, child?"

"I'm not a child."

"No, we've both grown older. I was forty-seven the other day."

She caught his hand--Heavens! how supple she was!--and murmured:

"You're not old a bit; you're quite young." At his wits' end, with his
heart thumping, but still keeping his eyes away from her, he said:

"Where is Oliver?"

She dropped his hand at that.

"Oliver? I hate him!"

Afraid to trust himself near her, he had begun walking up and down. And
she stood, following him with her gaze--the firelight playing on her red
frock. What extraordinary stillness! What power she had developed in
these few months! Had he let her see that he felt that power? And had
all this come of one little moment in a dark corridor, of one flower
pressed into his hand? Why had he not spoken to her roughly then--told
her she was a romantic little fool? God knew what thoughts she had been
feeding on! But who could have supposed--who dreamed--? And again he
fixed his mind resolutely on that thought: She's a child--only a child!

"Come!" he said: "tell me all about your time in Ireland?"

"Oh! it was just dull--it's all been dull away from you."

It came out without hesitancy or shame, and he could only murmur:

"Ah! you've missed your drawing!"

"Yes. Can I come to-morrow?"

That was the moment to have said: No! You are a foolish child, and I an
elderly idiot! But he had neither courage nor clearness of mind enough;
nor--the desire. And, without answering, he went towards the door to
turn up the light.

"Oh, no! please don't! It's so nice like this!"

The shadowy room, the bluish dusk painted on all the windows, the fitful
shining of the fire, the pallor and darkness of the dim casts and
bronzes, and that one glowing figure there before the hearth! And her
voice, a little piteous, went on:

"Aren't you glad I'm back? I can't see you properly out there."

He went back into the glow, and she gave a little sigh of satisfaction.
Then her calm young voice said, ever so distinctly:

"Oliver wants me to marry him, and I won't, of course."

He dared not say: Why not? He dared not say anything. It was too
dangerous. And then followed those amazing words: "You know why, don't
you? Of course you do."

It was ridiculous, almost shameful to understand their meaning. And he
stood, staring in front of him, withou