'Why was it, then?'

'You're too young to discuss such a story.' He turned away.

'I'm not so young,' said the shaking voice, 'as she was when----'

'Very well, then, if you will have it!' His look was ill to meet, for any one who loved him. 'The truth is, it didn't weigh upon her as it seems to on you, that I wasn't able to marry her.'

'Why are you so sure of that?'

'Because she didn't so much as hint at it when she wrote that she meant to break off the--the----'

'What made her write like that?'

'Why _will_ you go on talking of what's so long over and ended?'

'What reason did she give?'

'If your curiosity has so got the upper hand, _ask her_.'

Her eyes were upon him. In a whisper, 'You're afraid to tell me,' she said.

He went over to the window, seeming to wait there for something that did not come. He turned round at last.

'I still hoped, at _that_ time, to win my father over. She blamed me because'--again he faced the window and looked blindly out--'if the child had lived it wouldn't have been possible to get my father to--to overlook it.'

'You--wanted--it _overlooked_?' the girl said faintly. 'I don't underst----'

He came back to her on a wave of pa.s.sion. 'Of course you don't understand. If you did you wouldn't be the beautiful, tender, innocent child you are.' He took her hand, and tried to draw her to him.

She withdrew her hand, and shrank from him with a movement, slight as it was, so tragically eloquent, that fear for the first time caught hold of him.

'I am glad you didn't mean to desert her, Geoffrey. It wasn't your fault, after all--only some misunderstanding that can be cleared up.'

'_Cleared up?_'

'Yes, cleared up.'

'You aren't thinking that this miserable old affair I'd as good as forgotten----'

He did not see the horror-struck glance at the door, but he heard the whisper--

'_Forgotten!_'

'No, no'--he caught himself up--'I don't mean exactly forgotten. But you're torturing me so that I don't know what I'm saying.' He went closer. 'You aren't going to let this old thing come between you and me?'

She pressed her handkerchief to her lips, and then took it away.

'I can't make or unmake the past,' she said steadily. 'But I'm glad, at least, that you didn't mean to desert her in her trouble. You'll remind her of that first of all, won't you?'

She was moving across the room as she spoke, and, when she had ended, the handkerchief went quickly to her lips again as if to shut the door on sobbing.

'Where are you going?' He raised his voice. 'Why should I remind _any_body of what I want only to forget?'

'Hush! Oh, hush!' A moment she looked back, holding up praying hands.

His eyes had flown to the door. 'You don't mean _she's_----'

'Yes. I left her to get a little rest.'

He recoiled in an access of uncontrollable anger. She followed him.

Speechless, he eluded her, and went for his hat.

'Geoffrey,' she cried, 'don't go before you hear me. I don't know if what I think matters to you now, but I hope it does. You can still'--her voice was faint with tears--'still make me think of you without shrinking--if you will.'

He fixed her for a moment with eyes more stern than she had ever seen.

'What is it you are asking of me?' he said.

'To make amends, Geoffrey.'

His anger went out on a wave of pity. 'You poor little innocent!'

'I'm poor enough. But'--she locked her hands together like one who summons all her resolution--'I'm not so innocent but what I know you must right that old wrong now, if you're ever to right it.'

'You aren't insane enough to think I would turn round in these few hours and go back to something that ten years ago was ended forever!' As he saw how unmoved her face was, 'Why,' he burst out, 'it's stark, staring madness!'

'No!' She caught his arm. 'What you did ten years ago--that was mad.

This is paying a debt.'

Any man looking on, or hearing of Stonor's dilemma, would have said, 'Leave the girl alone to come to her senses.' But only a stupid man would himself have done it. Stonor caught her two hands in his, and drew her into his arms.

'Look, here, Jeannie, you're dreadfully wrought up and excited--tired, too.'

'No!' She freed herself, and averted the tear-stained face. 'Not tired, though I've travelled far to-day. I know you smile at sudden conversions. You think they're hysterical--worse--vulgar. But people must get their revelation how they can. And, Geoffrey, if I can't make you see this one of mine, I shall know your love could never mean strength to me--only weakness. And I shall be afraid,' she whispered.

Her dilated eyes might have seen a ghost lurking there in the commonplace room. 'So afraid I should never dare give you the chance of making me loathe myself.' There was a pause, and out of the silence fell words that were like the taking of a vow. 'I would never see you again.'

'How right I was to be afraid of that vein of fanaticism in you!'

'Certainly you couldn't make a greater mistake than to go away now and think it any good ever to come back. Even if I came to feel different, I couldn't _do_ anything different. I should _know_ all this couldn't be forgotten. I should know that it would poison my life in the end--yours too.'

'She has made good use of her time!' he said bitterly. Then, upon a sudden thought, 'What has changed _her_? Has she been seeing visions too?'

'What do you mean?'

'Why is she intriguing to get hold of a man that ten years ago she flatly refused to see or hold any communication with?'

'Intriguing to get hold of? She hasn't mentioned you!'