"Selwyn!" The words came unsteadily. "Have you nothing to say to
me, Selwyn? Don't you know that I know the girl with you to-night
was the girl who--who we brought in here last night? If you knew
her, why--"

Staring at me as if not understanding, Selwyn came closer. In his
eyes was puzzled questioning, but as they held mine they filled with
something of horror, and over his face, which had been white and
worn, spread deep and crimson flush. "You don't mean-- God in
heaven! Do you think the girl is anything to me?"

I did not answer, and, turning, he went down the steps and I into the
house.

CHAPTER X

For the past ten days I have been a very restless person. Mrs. Mundy
looks at me out of the corners of her kind and keen and cheery little
eyes when she does not think I am noticing, but she asks me nothing.
Mrs. Mundy is the wisest woman I know.

If only I could sleep! During the days I am busy, but I dread the
long nights when questions crowd that, fight as I may, I cannot keep
from asking. Selwyn is my friend. I never doubt a friend. But why
does he not come to me? Why does he not make clear that which he
must know is inexplicable to me?

I may never marry Selwyn, but certainly I shall marry no one else.
How could we hope for happiness when we feel so differently toward
much that is vital, when our attitude to life is as apart as the
poles? When each thinks the other wrong in points of view and manner
of living? Selwyn was born in a house with high walls around it. He
likes its walls. He does not care for many to come in, and cares
still less to go outside to others. Few people interest him. All
sorts interest me. We are both selfish and stubborn, but both hate
that which is not clean and clear, and save from his own lips I would
not believe that in his life is aught of which he could not tell me.

I have never told him I loved him, never promised to marry him. To
live in his high-walled house with its conventional customs, its
age-dimmed portraits, its stiff furnishings, and shut-out sunshine,
would stifle every cell in brain and lungs, and to marry him would be
to marry his house. I hate his house, hate the aloofness, the lack
of sympathy it represents. Its proud past I can appreciate, but not
its useless present. Save his brother Harrie, it is the one thing of
his old life left Selwyn. At the death of his father he bought
Harrie's interest and it is all his now. I would