together. "Oh,
nothing. I only--wondered."

"If you think I don't care for him--"

"Oh no. Not that--not that at all."

"Well, if you _were_ to think it, it would probably be because I've been
through so much--I'm _going_ through so much--that that sort of thing
has become secondary."

"I didn't know that--that sort of thing--was ever secondary."

"Because you've never had the experience. If you had--"

The freedom of speech she seemed to be according him led him on to say:

"I've had experience enough--as you may know--to be sure it wouldn't be
secondary with me."

She seemed willing to discuss the point. "When I say secondary I mean
that I'm in a position in which I find it isn't the most important thing
in the world to me to marry the man I--I care for."

"Then, what _is_ the most important thing?"

She stirred impatiently. "Oh, it's no use going into that; I suppose it
would be--to be free--not to owe you anything--or anybody anything--to
be out of this big, useless house--away from these unpaid
servants--and--and free! I'm not a dependent person. I dare say you've
noticed that. I shouldn't mind having no money. I know a way by which I
could support myself--and papa. I've thought that out. I shouldn't mind
being alone in the world, either--if I could only burst the coil that's
been wound about me."

"But since you can't," he said, rather cruelly, "wouldn't the next best
thing be--to marry the man you care for?"

Her response was to say, irrelevantly, somewhat quaveringly, in a voice
as near to tears as he could fancy her coming: "I wish I hadn't fallen
out with Aunt Vic."

"Why? Would she help you?"

"She's very good and kind--in her way."

"Why don't you write to her?"

"Writing wouldn't be any good now. It's too late."

Another long silence fell between them. The darkened windows of the
house on the other side of the lawn began to reflect a pallid gleam as
the moon rose. Shadows of trees and of clumps of shrubbery became
faintly visible on the grass. The great rounded elm in the foreground
detached itself against the shimmering, illuminated sky like an open
fan. Davenant found something ecstatic in the half-light, the peace, and
the extraordinary privilege of being alone with her. It would be one
more memory to treasure up. Silence, too, was a form of communion more
satisfactory to him than speech. It was so full of unutterable things
that he wondered at her allowing it to last.

Neverthele