r; and then,
under her windows, his feet on the pavement of the Square. She went to
the window, and stared at the weeping ash-trees in the garden and
thought of how Brodrick had said that it was no wonder that they wept.
And at the memory of his voice she felt a little pricking, wounding pain
under her eyelids, the birth-pang of unwilling tears.

There were feet, hurrying feet on the pavement again, and again the bell
cried out with its nervous electric scream. Her staircase door was
opened quickly and shut again, but Jane heard nothing until Brodrick
stood still in the room and spoke her name.

She turned, and he came forward, and she met him, holding her head high
to keep back her tears. She came slowly, with shy feet and with fear in
her eyes, and the desire of her heart on her lips, lifting them like
wings.

He took her two hands, surrendered to his, and raised and kissed them.
For a moment they stood so, held together, without any movement or any
speech.

"Jinny," he said thickly, and she looked down and saw her own tears,
dreadful drops, rolling off Brodrick's hands.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to do that."

Her hands struggled in his, and for pity he let them go.

"You can't be more surprised at me than I am myself," said she.

"But I'm not surprised," said Brodrick. "I never am."

And still she doubted.

"What did you come back for?"

"This, of course."

He had drawn her to the long seat by the fireplace.

"Why did you go away," she said, "and make me cry?"

"Because, for the first time in my life, I was uncertain."

"Of yourself?" Doubt, dying hard, stabbed her.

"I am never uncertain of myself," said Brodrick.

"Of what, then?"

"Of you."

"But you never told me."

"I've been trying to tell you the whole time."

Yet even in his arms her doubt stirred.

"What are you going to do now?" she whispered.

"_You're_ going to marry me," he said.

He had been certain of it the whole time.

"I thought," she said an hour later, "that you were going to marry
Gertrude."

"Oh, so that was it, was it? You were afraid----"

"I wasn't afraid. I knew it was the best thing you could do."

"The best thing I could do? To marry Gertrude?"

"My dear--it would be far, far better than marrying me."

"But I don't want," said he, "to marry Gertrude."

"Of course, _she_ doesn't want to marry you."

"I never supposed for a moment that she did."

"All the same, I thought it was going t