"And yet," he declared, leaning a little toward her, "there are times
when nature will be heard--when one realizes the great call."

"You are right," she answered softly. "That is the terrible part of it
all. You and I may never listen to it. We have to close our ears, to
beat our hands and hide, when the time comes."

"And is it worth while, I wonder?" he asked. "What do we gain----"

She held out her hand.

"Don't, Henry," she said--"don't, especially now. Be thankful, rather,
that there has been nothing in our great friendship which need keep
you from your duty."

"You mean that?" he asked hoarsely.

"You know that I mean it," she answered. "You know that it must be."

He rose to his feet and walked to the window. He remained there
standing alone, for several minutes. When he came back, something had
gone from his face. He moved heavily. He had the air of an older man.

"Pauline," he said, "you send me away easily. Let me tell you one of
the hard thoughts I have in my mind--one of the things that has
tortured me. I have fancied--I may be wrong--but I have fancied that
during the last few months you have been slipping away from me. I
have felt it, somehow. There has been nothing tangible, and yet I have
felt it. Answer me, honestly. Is this true? Is what I have told you,
after all, something of a relief?"

She answered him volubly, almost hysterically. Her manner was
absolutely foreign. He listened to her protestations almost in
bewilderment.

"It is not true, Henry. You cannot mean what you are saying. I have
always been the same. I am the same now. What could alter me? You
don't believe that anything could alter me?"

"Or any person?" he asked.

"Or any person," she repeated, hastily. "Go through the list of our
acquaintances, if you will. Have I ever shown any partiality for
anyone? You cannot honestly believe that I have not been faithful to
our unwritten compact?"

"Sometimes," he said slowly, "I have had a horrible fear. Pauline, I
want you to be kind to me. This has been a blow. I cannot easily get
over it. Let me tell you this. One of the reasons--the great
reason--why I fear and dread this coming change, is because it may
leave you more susceptible to the influence of that person."

"You mean Mr. Saton?" she said.

"I do," Rochester answered. "Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned his
name. Perhaps I ought not to have said anything about it. But there
the whole thing is. If I thought that