standing, not merely of women, but of the entire universe. He
could read Rodney, too, like a book. He knew that he was unhappy, and he
pitied him, and wished to help him.

"You say something and they--fly into a passion. Or for no reason at
all, they laugh. I take it that no amount of education will--" The
remainder of the sentence was lost in the high wind, against which they
had to struggle; but Denham understood that he referred to Katharine's
laughter, and that the memory of it was still hurting him. In comparison
with Rodney, Denham felt himself very secure; he saw Rodney as one of
the lost birds dashed senseless against the glass; one of the flying
bodies of which the air was full. But he and Katharine were alone
together, aloft, splendid, and luminous with a twofold radiance. He
pitied the unstable creature beside him; he felt a desire to protect
him, exposed without the knowledge which made his own way so direct.
They were united as the adventurous are united, though one reaches the
goal and the other perishes by the way.

"You couldn't laugh at some one you cared for."

This sentence, apparently addressed to no other human being, reached
Denham's ears. The wind seemed to muffle it and fly away with it
directly. Had Rodney spoken those words?

"You love her." Was that his own voice, which seemed to sound in the air
several yards in front of him?

"I've suffered tortures, Denham, tortures!"

"Yes, yes, I know that."

"She's laughed at me."

"Never--to me."

The wind blew a space between the words--blew them so far away that they
seemed unspoken.

"How I've loved her!"

This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham's side. The voice had all
the marks of Rodney's character, and recalled, with; strange vividness,
his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the blank
buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted, and
tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine alone in his
rooms at night.

"I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night."

Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney's confession had
made this statement necessary.

Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate.

"Ah, I've always known it," he cried, "I've known it from the first.
You'll marry her!"

The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted their
words. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post,
simultaneously.

"My God