ny notice of him. I
thought he wouldn't mind--he was so little, you see; and then I thought
some day I could tell him. Oh, Nevill--_do_ you think he minded?"

He bowed his head. He had not a word to say. He was trying to realize
this thing. To keep his worthless love, she had given up everything, even
to the supreme sacrifice of her motherhood.

Her fingers clutched the counterpane, working feverishly. She had had
something else to say. But she was afraid to say it, to speak of that
unspeakable new thing, her hidden hope of motherhood. He covered her
hands with his to keep them still.

"You see it was all right, as it happened."

"Yes--as it happened. But I think it was a little hard on poor old
Stanistreet."

"Sometimes I wonder if it _was_ fair. He used to say things; but I didn't
take them in at the time. I didn't understand; and somehow now, I feel as
if it had never happened. Perhaps it wasn't quite fair--but then I didn't
think. I wonder why he's never been to see me."

"Can't say, Molly."

"He must have seen the fire in the papers--I hope he didn't think what
you did. I mean--think--"

"What?"

"Think that I cared."

"Don't, Molly, for God's sake! I never thought it. I was in an infernal
bad temper, that was all."

"So that hasn't made any difference?"

"Of course it hasn't."

"Nothing can make any difference now then, can it?"

It was too much. He got up and walked up and down the room. Poor Mrs.
Nevill Tyson, she had put his idea into words. She had suggested that
there was a difference, and suggestion is a fatal thing to an unsteady
mind. In that moment of fearful introspection he said to himself that it
was all very well for her to say there was no difference. There was a
difference. She was not exactly lying on a bed of roses; but in the
nature of things her lot was easier than his. There was no comparison
between the man's case and the woman's. He had not sunk into that
serene apathy which is nine-tenths of a woman's virtue. He was not an
invalid--neither was he a saint. It is not necessary to be a saint in
order to be a martyr; poor devils have their martyrdom. Why could not
women realize these simple facts? Why would they persist in believing
the impossible?

His face was very red when he turned round and answered. "I can't talk
about it, Molly. God knows what I feel."

This was the way he helped to support that little fiction of the man of
deep and strong emotions, frost-bound in an