The latter rose as the door closed behind Hermann, and came and stood in front of her. And at the moment Sylvia could notice nothing of him except his heaviness, his plainness, all the things that she had told herself before did not really matter. Now her sensation contradicted that; she was conscious that the ash somehow had vastly acc.u.mulated over her fire, that all her affection and regard for him were suddenly eclipsed. This was a complete surprise to her; for the moment she found Michael's presence and his proximity to her simply distasteful.

"I thought Hermann was never going," he said.

For a second or two she did not reply; it was clearly no use to continue the ordinary banter of conversation, to suggest that as the room was Hermann's he might conceivably be conceded the right to stop there if he chose. There was no transition possible between the affairs of every day and the affair for which Michael had stopped to speak. She gave up all attempt to make one; instead, she just helped him.

"What is it, Michael?" she asked.

Then to her, at any rate, Michael's face completely changed. There burned in it all of a sudden the full glow of that of which she had only seen glimpses.

"You know," he said.

His shyness, his awkwardness, had all vanished; the time had come for him to offer to her all that he had to offer, and he did it with the charm of perfect manliness and simplicity.

"Whether you can accept me or not," he said, "I have just to tell you that I am entirely yours. Is there any chance for me, Sylvia?"

He stood quite still, making no movement towards her. She, on her side, found all her distaste of him suddenly vanished in the mere solemnity of the occasion. His very quietness told her better than any protestations could have done of the quality of what he offered, and that quality vastly transcended all that she had known or guessed of him.

"I don't know, Michael," she said at length.

She came a step forward, and without any sense of embarra.s.sment found that she, without conscious intention, had put her hands on his shoulders. The moment that was done she was conscious of the impulse that made her do it. It expressed what she felt.

"Yes, I feel like that to you," she said. "You're a dear. I expect you know how fond I am of you, and if you don't I a.s.sure you of it now. But I have got to give you more than that."

Michael looked up at her.

"Yes, Sylvia," he said, "much more than that."

A few minutes ago only she had not liked him at all; now she liked him immensely.

"But how, Michael?" she asked. "How can I find it?"

"Oh, it's I who have got to find it for you," he said. "That is to say, if you want it to be found. Do you?"

She looked at him gravely, without the tremor of a smile in her eyes.

"What does that mean exactly?" she said.

"It is very simple. Do you want to love me?"

She did not move her hands; they still rested on his shoulders like things at ease, like things at home.

"Yes, I suppose I want to," she said.

"And is that the most you can do for me at present?" he asked.

That reached her again; all the time the plain words, the plain face, the quiet of him stabbed her with daggers of which he had no idea.

She was dismayed at the recollection of her talk with her brother the evening before, of the ease and cert.i.tude with which she had laid down her conditions, of not giving up her career, of remaining the famous Miss Falbe, of refusing to take a dishonoured place in the sacred circle of the Combers. Now, when she was face to face with his love, so ineloquently expressed, so radically a part of him, she knew that there was nothing in the world, external to him and her, that could enter into their reckonings; but into their reckonings there had not entered the one thing essential. She gave him sympathy, liking, friendliness, but she did not want him with her blood. And though it was not humanly possible that she could want him with more than that, it was not possible that she could take him with less.

"Yes, that is the most I can do for you at present," she said.

Still quite quietly he moved away from her, so that he stood free of her hands.

"I have been constantly here all these last months," he said. "Now that you know what I have told you, do you want not to see me?"

That stabbed her again.

"Have I implied that?" she asked.

"Not directly. But I can easily understand its being a bore to you. I don't want to bore you. That would be a very stupid way of trying to make you care for me. As I said, that is my job. I haven't accomplished it as yet. But I mean to. I only ask you for a hint."

She understood her own feeling better than he. She understood at least that she was dealing with things that were necessarily incalculable.

"I can't give you a hint," she said. "I can't make any plans about it.

If you were a woman perhaps you would understand. Love is, or it isn't.

That is all I know about it."

But Michael persisted.

"I only know what you have taught me," he said. "But you must know that."

In a flash she became aware that it would be impossible for her to behave to Michael as she had behaved to him for several months past.

She could not any longer put a hand on his shoulder, beat time with her fingers on his arm, knowing that the physical contact meant nothing to her, and all--all to him. The rejection of him as a lover rendered the sisterly att.i.tude impossible. And not only must she revise her conduct, but she must revise the mental att.i.tude of which it was the physical counterpart. Up till this moment she had looked at the situation from her own side only, had felt that no plans could be made, that the natural thing was to go on as before, with the intimacy that she liked and the familiarity that was the obvious expression of it. But now she began to see the question from his side; she could not go on doing that which meant nothing particular to her, if that insouciance meant something so very particular to him. She realised that if she had loved him the touch of his hand, the proximity of his face would have had significance for her, a significance that would have been intolerable unless there was something mutual and secret between them. It had seemed so easy, in antic.i.p.ation, to tell him that he must wait, so simple for him just--well, just to wait until she could make up her mind. She believed, as she had told her brother, that she cared for Michael, or as she had told him that she wanted to--the two were to the girl's mind identical, though expressed to each in the only terms that were possible--but until she came face to face with the picture of the future, that to her wore the same outline and colour as the past, she had not known the impossibility of such a presentment. The desire of the lover on Michael's part rendered unthinkable the sisterly att.i.tude on hers. That her instinct told her, but her reason revolted against it.

"Can't we go on as we were, Michael?" she said.

He looked at her incredulously.

"Oh, no, of course not that," he said.

She moved a step towards him.

"I can't think of you in any other way," she said, as if making an appeal.

He stood absolutely unresponsive. Something within him longed that she should advance a step more, that he should again have the touch of her hands on his shoulders, but another instinct stronger than that made him revoke his desire, and if she had moved again he would certainly have fallen back before her.

"It may seem ridiculous to you," he said, "since you do not care. But I can't do that. Does that seem absurd to you I? I am afraid it does; but that is because you don't understand. By all means let us be what they call excellent friends. But there are certain little things which seem nothing to you, and they mean so much to me. I can't explain; it's just the brotherly relation which I can't stand. It's no use suggesting that we should be as we were before--"

She understood well enough for his purposes.

"I see," she said.

Michael paused for a moment.

"I think I'll be going now," he said. "I am off to Ashbridge in two days. Give Hermann my love, and a jolly Christmas to you both. I'll let you know when I am back in town."

She had no reply to this; she saw its justice, and acquiesced.

"Good-bye, then," said Michael.