no weariness, no faintness. It
was as though his body were urging upon him the importance of his
resistance, as though he were perceiving, too, with unmistakable
clearness the cleavage that there was between body and soul. And indeed
this vigour _did_ give him an energy to set about the numberless things
that he had arranged to fill every moment of his day--the many little
tinkling bells that he had set going to hide the urgent whisper of that
other voice. He carried his day through with a rush, a whirl, so that
he might be in bed again at night almost before he had finished his
dressing in the morning--no pause, no opportunity for silence. . . .

And now he must see Margaret Craven, see her for herself, but also see
her to talk to her about her brother. How much did Rupert Craven know?
How much--and here was the one tremendous question--had he told his
sister? As Olva waited, once again, in the musty hall, saw once more the
dim red glass of the distant window, smelt again the scent of oranges,
his heart was beating so that he could not hear the old woman's
trembling voice. How would Margaret receive him? Would there be in her
eyes that shadow of distrust that he always saw now in Rupert's? His
knees were trembling and he had to stay for an instant and pull himself
together before he crossed the drawing-room threshold.

And then he was, instantly, reassured. Margaret was alone in the dim
room, and as she came to meet him he saw in her approach to him that
she had been wanting him. In her extended hands he found a welcome that
implied also a need. He felt, as he met her and greeted her and looked
again into the grave, tender eyes that he had been wanting so badly ever
since he had seen them last, that there was nothing more wonderful than
the way that their relationship advanced between every meeting. They
met, exchanged a word or two and parted, but in the days that separated
them their spirits seemed to leap together, to crowd into lonely hours a
communion that bound them more closely than any physical intimacy could
do.

"Oh! I'm so glad you've come. I had hoped it, wanted it."

He sat down close to her, his dark eyes on her face.

"You're in trouble? I can see."

She bent her eyes gravely on the fire, and as slowly she tried to put
together the things that she wished to say he felt, in her earnest
thoughtfulness, a rest, a relief, so wonderful that it was like plunging
his body into cool water after a long and