ry me," he was
suddenly inspired to say. "I can't imagine your applying that word to me
then in your mind. God knows what it was you did say to yourself about
me, but you never said I was 'nice.' That was the last word that would
have fitted me then--and now it's the only one you can think of."
The hint that somehow he had stumbled upon a clue to the mysteries
enveloping him rose to prominence in his mind as he spoke. The year had
wrought a baffling difference in him. He lacked something now that then
he had possessed, but he was powerless to define it.

He seated himself again in the chair, and put his hand through her arm
to keep her where she lightly rested beside him. "Will you tell me," he
said, with a kind of sombre gentleness, "what the word is that you would
have used then? I know you wouldn't--couldn't--have called me 'nice.'
What would you have called me?"

She paused in silence for a little, then slipped from the chair and
stood erect, still leaving her wrist within the restraining curve of his
fingers. "I suppose," she said, musingly--"I suppose I should have said
'powerful' or 'strong.'" Then she released her arm, and in turn moved to
the parapet.

"And I am weak now--I am 'nice,'" he reflected, mechanically.

In the profile he saw, as she looked away at the vast distant horizon,
there was something pensive, even sad. She did not speak at once, and as
he gazed at her more narrowly it seemed as if her lips were quivering.
A new sense of her great beauty came to him--and with it a hint that
for the instant at least her guard was down. He sprang to his feet, and
stood beside her.

"You ARE going to be open with me--Edith!" he pleaded, softly.

She turned from him a little, as if to hide the signs of her agitation.
"Oh, what is there to say?" she demanded, in a tone which was almost a
wail. "It is not your fault. I'm not blaming you."

"WHAT is not my fault?" he persisted with patient gentleness.

Suddenly she confronted him. There were the traces of tears upon
her lashes, and serenity had fled from her face. "It is a mistake--a
blunder," she began, hurriedly. "I take it all upon my own shoulders.
I was the one who did it. I should have had more judgment--more good
sense!"

"You are not telling me, are you," he asked with gravity, "that you are
sorry you married me?"

"Is either of us glad?" she retorted, breathlessly. "What is there to be
glad about? You are bored to death--you confess it. And I--w