lien from his ideal for her; she would try to
pursue the just and the beautiful. But to rekindle the burnt-out fires
of her love was a miracle that even Franklin's love and Franklin's
suffering could not perform, and as for marrying Gerald in order to be a
mother to him, she did not feel it possible, even for Franklin's sake,
to assume that travesty.

It was at five o'clock that she asked Gerald to come and see her. She
went down to him in her sitting-room, when, on the stroke of the clock,
he was announced. She felt that it required no effort to meet him,
beyond the forcing of her weariness.

Gerald was standing before the fire, and in looking at him, as she
entered and closed the door, she was aware of a little sense of
surprise. She had not expected to find him, since the crash of Aunt
Grizel's revelations, as fatuous as the day before yesterday; nor had
she expected the boyish sulkiness of that day's earlier mood. She
expected change and the signs of discomfort and distress. It was this
haggard brightness for which she was unprepared. He looked as if he
hadn't slept or eaten, and under jaded eyelids his eyes had the
sparkling fever of insomnia.

Helen felt that she could thoroughly carry out the first of Franklin's
requests; she could be kind and she could be sorry; yes, Gerald was very
unhappy; it was strange to think of, and pitiful.

'Have you had any tea?' she asked him, giving him her hand, which he
pressed mechanically.

'No, thanks,' said Gerald.

'Do have some. You look hungry.'

'I'm not hungry, thanks.' He was neither hostile nor pleading; he only
kept his eyes fixed on her with bright watchfulness, rather as a
patient's eyes watch the doctor who is to pronounce a verdict, and
Helen, with all her kindness, felt a little irked and ill at ease before
his gaze.

'You've heard from Kane?' Gerald said, after a pause. Helen had taken
her usual place in the low chair.

'Yes, this morning.'

'And that's why you sent for me?'

'Yes,' said Helen, 'he asked me to.'

Gerald looked down into the fire. 'I can't tell you what I think of him.
You can't care to hear, of course. You know what I've done to him, and
that must make you feel that I'm not the person to talk about him. But
I've never met any one so good.'

'He is good. I'm glad to hear you say it. He is the best person I've
ever met, too,' said Helen. 'As for what you did to him, you didn't know
what you were doing.'

'I don't think that stupi