you want? And in any case,
how could I give anything except my eager wishes, my friendship--perhaps,
if you will, my affection? But would that bring you content?"

"No!" he answered unhesitatingly. "I want your love, I want you
yourself. You have played a woman's part in life. You haven't been
content to sit down and wait for what fate might bring you. You have
worked out your own destiny and you have shown that you have courage.
Don't disprove it."

She looked him in the eyes, very sweetly, but with the shadow of a great
disturbance in her face.

"I want to help you," she said. "Indeed, I feel more than you can
believe--more than I could have believed possible--the desire, the
longing to help. But what is there you can ask of me beyond my hand in
yours, beyond all the comradeship which a woman who has more in her
heart than she dare own, can give?"

Once more the door was opened below. The voice of the singer came
floating up. Then it was closed again and the little passionate cry
blotted out. His lips moved but he said nothing. It seemed suddenly,
from the light in his face, that he might have been echoing those words
which rang in her ears. She trembled and suddenly held her hand across
the table.

"Hold my fingers," she begged. "These others will think that we have
made a bet or a compact. What does it matter? I want to give you all
that I can. Will you be patient? Will you remember that you have found
your way along a very difficult path to a goal which no one yet has ever
reached? I could tell you more but may not that be enough? I want you
to have something to carry away with you, something not too cold,
something that burns a little with the beginnings of life and love, and,
if you will, perhaps hope. May that content you for a little while, for
you see, although I am not a girl, these things, and thoughts of these
things, are new to me?"

He drew a little breath. It seemed to him that there was no more
beautiful place on earth than this little smoke-hung corner of the
restaurant. The words which escaped from his lips were vibrant,
tremulous.

"I am your slave. I will wait. There is no one like you in the world."

CHAPTER X

Tallente found a distant connection of his waiting for him in his
rooms, on his return from the House at about half-past six,--Spencer
Williams, a young man who, after a brilliant career at Oxford, had
become one of the junior secretaries to the Prime Minister. The young
ma