er grey eyes meeting his so
candidly--this warm young human being who belonged more truly in the
living scheme of things than she did on painted canvas or in marble.

From this unexpected angle, and suddenly, he found himself viewing her
for the first time--not as a plaything, not as a petted model, not as
an object appealing to his charity, not as an experiment in
altruism--nor sentimentally either, nor as a wistful child without a
childhood.

Perhaps, to him, she had once been all of these. He looked at her with
other eyes now, beginning, possibly, to realise something of the
terrific responsibility he was so lightly assuming.

He got up from his bench and went over to her; and the girl turned a
trifle pale with excitement and delight.

"Why did you come to me?" she asked breathlessly.

"I don't know."

"Did you know I was trying to make you get up and come to me?"

"What?"

"Yes! Isn't it curious? I looked at you and kept thinking, 'I want you
to get up and come to me! I want you to _come_! I _want_ you!' And
suddenly you got up and came!"

He looked at her out of curious, unsmiling eyes:

"It's your turn, after all, Dulcie."

"How is it my turn?"

"I drew you--in the beginning," he said slowly.

There was a silence. Then, abruptly, her heart began to beat very
rapidly, scaring her dumb with its riotous behaviour. When at length
her consternation subsided and her irregular breathing became
composed, she said, quite calmly:

"You and all that you are and believe in and care for very naturally
attracted me--drew me one evening to your open door.... It will always
be the same--you, and what of life and knowledge you represent--will
never fail to draw me."

"But--though I am just beginning to divine it--you also drew _me_,
Dulcie."

"How could that be?"

"You did. You do still. I am just waking up to that fact. And that
starts me wondering what I'd do without you."

"You don't have to do without me," she said, instinctively laying her
hand over her heart; it was beating so hard and, she feared, so loud.
"You can always have me when you wish. You know that."

"For a while, yes. But some day, when----"

"Always!"

He laughed without knowing why.

"You'll marry some day, Sweetness," he insisted.

She shook her head.

"Oh, yes you will----"

"No!"

"Why?"

But she only looked away and shook her head. And the silent motion of
dissent gave him an odd sense of relief.

XXIII

A L