ad not yet been drawn and the latticed panes were growing dim. The dull
grey sky behind the battlements of the roof opposite showed no memory of
sunset.

"Of course you have to go away," said May, softly, and she too looked
out at the dull sky now darkening into night.

Should she now tell him that she had kept her word, that she had not
seen the cathedral because she had not been alone. She had had a strong
desire to tell him when it was impossible to do so. Now, when she had
only to say the words for he was there, close beside her, she could not
speak. Perhaps he wouldn't care whether she had kept her word--and yet
she knew that he did care.

They stood together for a moment in silence.

"And you were not able to go with me to the cathedral," he said, turning
and looking at her face steadily.

May coloured as she felt his eyes upon her, but she braced herself to
meet his question as if it was a matter about which they cared nothing.

"I didn't want to waste your time," she said, and she drew her gloves
through her hand and moved away.

"Bingham," he said, "knows more than I do, perhaps more than any man in
Oxford, about mediaeval architecture."

"Ah yes," said May, and she walked slowly towards the fireplace.

"And he will have shown you everything," he persisted.

May was now in front of the portrait, though she did not notice it.

"I didn't go into the cathedral," she said.

The Warden raised his head as if throwing off some invisible burden.
Then he moved and came and stood near her--also facing the portrait. But
neither noticed the large luminous eyes fixed upon them, visible even in
the darkening room.

"I suppose one ought not to be critical of a drawing-room song," said
the Warden, and his voice now was changed.

May moved her head slightly towards him, but did not meet his eyes.

"I was inclined," he said, "but then I am by trade a college tutor, to
criticise one line of Tennyson's verse."

She knew what he meant. "What line do you object to?" she asked, and the
line seemed to be already dinning in her ears.

He quoted the line, pronouncing the words with a strange emphasis--

"'Love that can shape or can shatter a life, till the life shall have
fled.'"

"Yes?" said May.

"It is a pretty sentiment," he said. "I suppose we ought to accept it as
such."

"Oh!" said May, and her voice lingered doubtfully over the word.

"