th a laugh: "You look
like some pretty ghost from dreamland--with your white gown and arms and
face. Shall we descend into the waking world together?"

They stood for a moment motionless, looking straight at one another;
then the smile died out on his face, but he still strove to speak
lightly, using effort, like a man with a dream dark upon him: "I am
waiting for your pretty ghostship."

Her lips moved in reply; no sound came from them.

"Are you afraid of me?" he said.

"Yes."

"Of _me_, Shiela?"

"Of us both. You don't know--you don't know!"

"Know what, Shiela?"

"What I am--what I have done. And I've got to tell you." Her mouth
quivered suddenly, and she faced him fighting for self-control. "I've
got to tell you. Things cannot be left in this way between us. I thought
they could, but they can't."

He crossed the corridor, slowly; she straightened up at his approach,
white, rigid, breathless.

"What is it that has frightened you?" he said.

"What you--said--to me."

"That I love you?"

"Yes; that."

"Why should it frighten you?"

"Must I tell you?"

"If it will help you."

"I am past help. But it will end you're caring for me. And from making
me--care--for you. I must do it; this cannot go on--"

"Shiela!"

She faced him, white as death, looking at him blindly.

"I am trying to think of you--because you love me--"

Fright chilled her blood, killing pulse and colour. "I am trying to be
kind--because I care for you--and we must end this before it ends us....
Listen to my miserable, pitiful, little secret, Mr. Hamil. I--I have--I
am not--free."

"Not _free_!"

"I was married two years ago--when I was eighteen years old. Three
people in the world know it: you, I, and--the man I married."

"Married!" he repeated, stupefied.

She looked at him steadily a moment.

"I think your love has been done to death, Mr. Hamil. My own danger was
greater than you knew; but it was for your sake--because you loved me.
Good night."

Stunned, he saw her pass him and descend the stairs, stood for a space
alone, then scarce knowing what he did he went down into the great
living-room to take his leave of the family gathered there before dinner
had been announced. They all seemed to be there; he was indifferently
conscious of hearing his own words like a man who listens to an
unfamiliar voice in a distant room.

The rapid soundless night ride to the hotel seemed unreal; the lights in
the cafe, the nois