.

And so she could only hold his hand very tightly, too agitated to utter
any plea, afraid to keep him, yet even more afraid to let him go, lest,
apart from her, that dread gulf should widen into an abyss too terrible
for contemplation.

He waited for a little beside her, to give her agitation time to subside.
But it only increased till it became so painfully obvious that he could
ignore it no longer.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked her gently. "I am
quite ready to listen to you. Only don't be so distressed. Really there
is no need."

His tone was perfectly kind, but the caressing note she was wont to hear
in it was absent. She shivered afresh, conscious of a chill. She could
not answer him; her throat seemed incapable of producing sound.

A while longer, with absolute patience, he waited. Then; "I think you
must let me go, dear," he said. "I am doing you more harm than good just
now. By and bye, when you are calmer, we will have a talk."

And so by his very forbearance he committed the greatest mistake of his
life. If he had stayed then, she might have been persuaded to tell him
all that was in her heart. But--the bitter irony of it!--though she was
possessed by a passionate longing to do so, in face of his quiet
restraint she could not. In fear of the physical effect upon her, he held
her back. And she was powerless to pass the barrier. Without his
supporting tenderness, she could not lay bare to him the misery and the
pain which in no other way could be relieved.

She loosened her hold upon his hand, and as he gently withdrew it she
felt as if her last chance of peace were taken away. She turned her face
into the pillow and lay still, and a moment later the soft closing of the
door told her he had gone.

She listened to his quiet tread along the passage, and an overwhelming
sense of desolation swept over her. He had left her alone to cope with
her trouble, and the burden of it was greater than she could bear.

She did not know that he returned a little later and listened for many
seconds at the door, fearing that she might be spending her solitude in
tears. She never heard him there, or even then her tragedy might have
been lifted from her. She was lying quite still, with clenched hands,
staring dry-eyed into space; for she had no tears to shed.

And he, deeming her sleeping, went softly away again, to sit on the
terrace and await Aunt Philippa, who had retired to make her final
prepa