y more than it is satisfied
with giving less than all that it has. The selfishness lies in demanding
and insisting upon having everything, while only offering rags and
shreds in return; and if one may find this fault in ordinary love
affairs, one may find it tenfold in ordinary friendships. Friendship may
be heroic but love is godlike."

Margaret had become interested in spite of herself, though she had
preserved the constrained manner she had first assumed. Now, however, as
Claudius turned his flashing blue eyes to hers, she understood that she
had allowed the conversation to go far enough, and she marvelled that on
the very day when she was trying to be most unapproachable he should
have said more to show what was next his heart than ever before. She did
not know enough of exceptional natures like his to be aware that a touch
of the curb is the very thing to rouse the fierce blood. True, he spoke
generally, and even argumentatively, and his deep voice was calm enough,
but there was a curious light in his eyes that dazzled her even in the
mid-day sun, and she looked away.

"I am not sure I agree with you," she said, "but you put it very
clearly. Shall we go on reading?"

Claudius was some time in finding his place in the open book, and then
went on. Again he misunderstood her, for though he could not remember
saying anything he regretted, he fancied she had brought the
conversation to a somewhat abrupt close. He read on, feeling very
uncomfortable, and longing for one of those explanations that are
impossible between acquaintances and emotional between lovers. He felt
also that if he ever spoke out and told her he loved her it would be in
some such situation as the present. Margaret let her needlework drop and
leaned back in the long chair, staring at a very uninteresting-looking
tree on the other side of the garden. Claudius read in a steady
determined tone, emphasising his sentences with care, and never once
taking his eyes from the book. At last, noticing how quietly he was
doing his work, Margaret looked at him, not furtively or as by stealth,
but curiously and thoughtfully. He was good to look at, so strong and
straight, even as he sat at ease with the book in his hand, and the
quivering sunlight through the leaves played over his yellow beard and
white forehead. She knew well enough now that he admired her greatly,
and she hoped it would not be very hard for him when she went away.
Somehow, he was still to her