fraid of each
other's touch.

As he sat in the chair that faced hers he held his hands clasped
loosely in front of him, and looked at them with a curious attention,
as if he wondered what kind of hands they were that could resist
holding her.

When he saw that she was looking at him they fell apart with a nervous
gesture.

They picked up the book she had laid down and turned it. His eyes
examined the title page. Their pathos lightened and softened; it
became compassion; they smiled at her with a little pitiful smile,
half tender, half ironic, as if they said, "Poor Gwenda, is that what
you're driven to?"

He opened the book and turned the pages, reading a little here and
there.

He scowled. His look changed. It darkened. It was angry, resentful,
inimical. The dying youth in it came a little nearer to death.

Rowcliffe had found that he could not understand what he had read.

"Huh! What do you addle your brains with that stuff for?" he said.

"It amuses me."

"Oh--so long as you're amused."

He pushed away the book that had offended him.

They talked--about the Vicar, about Alice, about Rowcliffe's children,
about the changes in the Dale, the coming of the Maceys and the going
of young Grierson.

"He wasn't a bad chap, Grierson."

He softened, remembering Grierson.

"I can't think why you didn't care about him."

And at the thought of how Gwenda might have cared for Grierson and
hadn't cared his youth revived; it came back into his eyes and lit
them; it passed into his scowling face and caressed and smoothed it to
the perfect look of reminiscent satisfaction. Rowcliffe did not know,
neither did she, how his egoism hung upon her passion, how it drew
from it food and fire.

He raised his head and squared his shoulders with the unconscious
gesture of his male pride.

* * * * *

It was then that she saw for the first time that he wore the black tie
and had the black band of mourning on his sleeve.

"Oh Steven--what do you wear that for?"

"This? My poor old uncle died last week."

"Not the one I saw?"

"When?"

"At Mary's wedding."

"No. Another one. My father's brother."

He paused.

"It's made a great difference to me and Mary."

He said it gravely, mournfully almost. She looked at him with tender
eyes.

"I'm sorry, Steven."

He smiled faintly.

"Sorry, are you?"

"Yes. If you cared for him."

"I'm afraid I didn't very much. It's not as if I'd s