at it or whether it had been
attacked by its mate. You'd let all that alone--and just tend it."

Her tears were coursing freely now beneath her veil. "Is that really the
way you feel about me?"

He grew apologetic. "Oh, I don't mean any Good Samaritan business, don't
you know? If I could look after you a bit you'd do the same by me. I'm
thinking of that, too. Look here," he pursued, confidentially, but
coloring; "I'll tell you something, if you won't think me an ass. I
could have married two or three girls--oh, more than that!--if I'd
wanted to. But I could see what they were after. It wasn't me--not by a
long shot. It was the place--Foljambe--it's really quite a decent place,
you know--right in the shires--and the hunting. They'd have thought it
awful luck to have to clear out of England every year, just when the
hunting begins--and stick in this bally hole--or go to Egypt. But you
wouldn't." As she said nothing for the minute, he insisted, "Would you,
now?"

She shook her head musingly. "No, I shouldn't."

He looked relieved. "Well, that's just it. That's just what I thought."
He colored more deeply, with a hectic spot in each cheek. "Life isn't
all beer and skittles to me, don't you know--and you'd be the kind of
thing I haven't got, don't you know?" He leaned toward her beseechingly.
"Do you see now?"

"I think I do. You mean that we'd mutually take care of each other."

"Well, that's what it would amount to--not to say any more about my
being so awfully fond of you. You won't forget that."

She smiled through her tears. "Oh no; I'm not likely to forget it. I
wish I could tell you--"

But she broke off because she could say no more, struggling to her feet.
He agreed to her request that she should have time to think his proposal
over, and also that he should let her return alone to the hotel,
remaining in the shelter with the crooning child long after she had gone
away.

But once she was out in the wind again she found it difficult to give
the matter concentrated thought. Much as she had been moved while he
talked to her, the emotion seemed to be blown away by the strong air of
reality. It was like the crying in which she had sometimes indulged
herself at a play, and which left no aftermath of sadness. She could
hardly tell what aftermath had been left by Noel Ordway's words; but as
far as she could judge it had everything in it to touch her and appeal
to her, except the possible. And yet so much that was