yet a moment longer,
trying to remember mechanically what it was he had determined to tell
her. Bah! it was trifling and unimportant; words did not affect the
question; all the wrecked convents in the world could not touch the one
fact that lay in fire at his heart. He would say nothing; she would
understand.

In the tiny entrance hall there was a whiff of fragrance where she had
passed through; and his heart stirred in answer. Then he opened the
door, stepped through and closed it behind him.

She was standing upright by the hearth, and faced him as he entered. He
was aware of her blue mantle, her white, jewelled head-dress, one hand
gripping the mantel-shelf, her pale steady face and bright eyes. Behind
there was the warm rich panelling, and the leaping glow of the wood
fire.

She made no movement.

Outside the lane was filled with street noises, the cries of children,
the voices of men who went by talking, the rumble of a waggon coming
with the crack of whips and jingle of bells from the river. The wheels
came up and went past into silence again before either spoke or moved.

Then Ralph lifted his hands a little and let them drop, as he stared at
her face. From her eyes looked out her will, tense as steel; and his own
shook to meet it.

"Well?" she said at last; and her voice was perfectly steady.

"Beatrice," cried Ralph; and the agony of it tore his heart.

She dropped her hand to her side and still looked at him without
flinching.

"Beatrice," cried Ralph once more.

"Then you have no more to say--after last night?"

A torrent of thoughts broke loose in his brain, and he tried to snatch
one as they fled past--to say one word. His excuses went by him like
phantoms; they bewildered and dazed him. Why, there were a thousand
things to say, and each was convincing if he could but say it. The cloud
passed and there were her eyes watching him still.

"Then that is all?" she said.

Again the cloud fell on him; little scenes piteously clear rose before
him, of the road by Rusper convent, Layton's leering face, a stripped
altar; and for each there was a tale if he could but tell it. And still
the bright eyes never flinched.

It seemed to him as if she was watching him curiously; her lips were
parted, and her head was a little on one side; her face interested and
impersonal.

"Why, Beatrice--" he cried again.

Then her love shook her like a storm; he had never dreamed she could
look like that; her mout