"Please leave it alone!"

His tone had in it more of fervour than he knew, and she dropped the
heavy mass hastily, thankful to screen her face from view. Then,
because silence had in it an element of danger, she forced herself to
break it.

"You were sleeping so soundly that I thought you were safe not to wake
till morning; and it was a relief to let it down."

"Why apologise?" he asked, smiling. "What is it you are reading? Won't
you share it with me? I feel hopelessly wide-awake."

"It would be delightful to read to you again," she said simply. "But
you might prefer something lighter. I was reading--a sermon."

"I have no prejudice against sermons. We get few enough up here.
What's your subject?"

"The Responsibility of Strength."

"Ah!--" There was pain in the low sound. "_You_ must know a good deal
about that form of responsibility,--you who are so superbly strong."
And again she was grateful for her sheltering veil of hair. "The text
is from Romans, I suppose?"

"Yes. 'We then that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the
weak.'"

"It's a heavy penalty," he mused. "But one is bound to pay it to the
uttermost farthing. Isn't that so?"

"Yes,--to the uttermost farthing."

She was thinking of herself, and his answer amazed her.

"Then, let me off that promise I gave you last April. It was a fatal
mistake, and it's not fair on Ladybird."

She stifled an exclamation of dismay. It had been one thing to plead
with him a year ago; but now it seemed impossible to speak a dozen
words on the subject without risk of self-betrayal.

Her silence pricked Desmond to impatience.

"Well," he said, "what's the difficulty? You'll do what I ask, of
course?"

"No, I can't. It is out of the question."

A suppressed sound of vexation reached her.

"I thought you cared more for Evelyn than that amounts to," he said
reproachfully.

"I _do_ care for her. You know I do."

"Yet you intend to hold out against me?"

"Yes."

"In spite of all it may involve--for Ladybird?"

"Yes."

The brief finality of her answers was curiously discouraging, and for
the moment Desmond could think of nothing more to say.

He closed his eyes to concentrate thought and shut out the distracting
vision of her bowed head. When he opened them again she was standing
close to him--a white commanding figure, in a dusky cloak of hair
reaching almost to her knees.

"Theo," she said softly, with an eloquent gesture of appeal, "you