deemed and sainted, united by a common act of
adoration, every form clothed by reflection of His glory, every heart,
every thought centred upon God.--Richard looked at all that, but it
failed to speak to him. Then he saw Honoria resolutely turn her back
upon the glory. She came directly towards him. Her face was very thin,
her manner very calm. She laid her left hand on the peak of his saddle.
She looked him full in the eyes.

"Richard," she said, "be patient a minute and listen.--It comes to
this, that a woman--your equal in position, of your own age, and not
without money--does volunteer to share your work. It's no forlorn hope.
She is not disappointed. On the contrary she has, and can have, pretty
well all the world's got to give. Only--perhaps very foolishly, for she
doesn't know much about the matter, having been rather coldblooded as
yet--she has fallen in love."

There was a silence, save that the wind came out of the west, out of
the majesty of the sunset, and with it came the calling of the sea--not
only of the blue water, or of those green tides that sweep above
wandering mortals in the magic green-wood; but of the sea of faith, of
the sea of love--love human, love divine, love universal--which circles
not only this, but all possible states of being, all possible worlds.

Presently Richard spoke hoarsely, under his breath.

"With whom?" he said.

"With you----"

Dickie went white to the lips. He sat absolutely still for a little
space, his hands resting on his thighs.

"Tell her to think," he said, at last.--"She proposes to do that which
the world will condemn, and rightly, from its point of view. It will
misread her motives. It won't spare disagreeable comment. Tell her to
think.--Tell--tell her to look.--Cripple, dwarf, the last, as he ought
to be, of an unlucky race--a man who's carried up and down-stairs like
an infant, who's strapped to the saddle, strapped to the driving
seat--who is cut off from most forms of activity and of sport.--A man
who will never have any sort of career--who has given himself, in
expiation of past sins, to the service of human beings a degree more
unfortunate than himself.--No, no, stop--hear me out.--She must know it
all!--A man who has lived far from cleanly, who has evil memories and
evil knowledge of life--no--listen!--A man whom you,--yes, you
yourself, Honoria,--have condemned bitterly, from whom, notwithstanding
your splendid nerve and pluck, so repulsive is his d