ear," she insisted, laying her fingers upon his hand and
looking at him curiously. "I must, even though I see how they distress
you. It is wonderful that you should mind so much, Everard, but you do,
and I love you for it."

"Mind?" he groaned. "Mind!"

"You are so like him and yet so different," she went on meditatively.
"You drink so little wine, you are always so self-controlled, so
serious. You live as though you had a life around you of which others
knew nothing. The Everard I remember would never have cared about being
a magistrate or going into Parliament. He would have spent his time
racing or yachting, hunting or shooting, as the fancy took him. And
yet--"

"And yet what?" Dominey asked, a little hoarsely.

"I think he loved me better than you," she said very sadly.

"Why?" he demanded.

"I cannot tell you," she answered, with her eyes upon her plate, "but I
think that he did."

Dominey walked suddenly to the window and leaned out. There were drops
of moisture upon his forehead, he felt the fierce need of air. When he
came back she was still sitting there, still looking down.

"I have spoken to Doctor Harrison about it," she went on, her voice
scarcely audible. "He told me that you probably loved more than you
dared to show, because someday the real Everard might come back."

"That is quite true," he reminded her softly. "He may come back at any
moment."

She gripped his hand, her voice shook with passion. She leaned towards
him, her other arm stole around his neck.

"But I don't want him to come back!" she cried. "I want you!"

Dominey sat for a moment motionless, like a figure of stone. Through the
wide-flung, blind-shielded windows came the raucous cry of a newsboy,
breaking the stillness of the summer evening. And then another and
sharper interruption,--the stopping of a taxicab outside, the firm,
insistent ringing of the front doorbell. Recollection came to Dominey,
and a great strength. The fire which had leaped up within him was thrust
back. His response to her wave of passion was infinitely tender.

"Dear Rosamund," he said, "that front doorbell summons me to rather an
important interview. Will you please trust in me a little while longer?
Believe me, I am not in any way cold. I am not indifferent. There is
something which you will have to be told,--something with which I never
reckoned, something which is beginning to weigh upon me night and day.
Trust me, Rosamund, and wait!"

She sa