is
face was drawn and pinched as if by sharp physical suffering. He drew
two or three quick, deep breaths as he came towards her.

He stood beside her a moment, and then without a word, he unfastened
the door. It swung inwards and stood open. Margaret saw that it was
thickly padded to prevent any sound from passing, and that there was
another padded door beyond it which she had not noticed when she had
entered. He understood her look of doubt.

'That one is open now,' he said. 'It locks and unlocks itself as I shut
or open the inner door.'

He was willing to let her see how completely she had been cut off from
the outer world; and she realised the truth and shuddered.

'Good-bye,' she said, abruptly, as if he were not to go downstairs with
her, and she made a step to pass him.

He thrust his arm out across the way, resting his head against the
door-post. She started, almost nervously, and then stood still again
and looked at him.

'No,' he said, 'I shall not try to keep you, and the door is open. But
please don't say good-bye like that, as if we were not going to meet
soon.'

'It's not good for us to be alone together,' she said.

The words came by instinct, and acknowledged a weakness in herself.
After she had spoken, she was very sorry. His drawn face softened.

'That's why I forgive you,' she said, with sudden frankness, and a
blush reddened her cheeks under the fawn-coloured veil she had drawn
down again.

He took her hand, against her will and almost violently, but in an
instant his own was gentle again.

'Margaret!' His voice had a thrill in it.

'No,' she answered, but not roughly now, and scarcely trying to free
herself. 'No. I don't love you in the least. That is why I won't marry
you. There's something that draws me to you against my will
sometimes--yes, I know that! But I hate it, and I'm afraid of it. It's
not what I like in you, it's what I like least. It's something like
hypnotism, I'm sure. I'm ashamed of it, because it is what has made me
flirt with you. Yes, I have! I've flirted outrageously, except that
I've always told you that I never would marry you. I've been truthful
in that, at all events.'

'Do you think I reproach you?'

'You might have, this morning. Now we have each something to reproach
the other. We will forgive and say good-bye for a while. When we meet
again, that something I'm afraid of will be gone--perhaps--then
everything will be different. Now, good-bye.'

He had