At length she said: "I believe it's because of you."

It was impossible to make the confession more dispassionately, or in a
tone less encouraging to the vanity of the person addressed. Archer
reddened to the temples, but dared not move or speak: it was as if her
words had been some rare butterfly that the least motion might drive
off on startled wings, but that might gather a flock about it if it
were left undisturbed.

"At least," she continued, "it was you who made me understand that
under the dullness there are things so fine and sensitive and delicate
that even those I most cared for in my other life look cheap in
comparison. I don't know how to explain myself"--she drew together her
troubled brows--"but it seems as if I'd never before understood with
how much that is hard and shabby and base the most exquisite pleasures
may be paid."

"Exquisite pleasures--it's something to have had them!" he felt like
retorting; but the appeal in her eyes kept him silent.

"I want," she went on, "to be perfectly honest with you--and with
myself. For a long time I've hoped this chance would come: that I
might tell you how you've helped me, what you've made of me--"

Archer sat staring beneath frowning brows. He interrupted her with a
laugh. "And what do you make out that you've made of me?"

She paled a little. "Of you?"

"Yes: for I'm of your making much more than you ever were of mine. I'm
the man who married one woman because another one told him to."

Her paleness turned to a fugitive flush. "I thought--you promised--you
were not to say such things today."

"Ah--how like a woman! None of you will ever see a bad business
through!"

She lowered her voice. "IS it a bad business--for May?"

He stood in the window, drumming against the raised sash, and feeling
in every fibre the wistful tenderness with which she had spoken her
cousin's name.

"For that's the thing we've always got to think of--haven't we--by your
own showing?" she insisted.

"My own showing?" he echoed, his blank eyes still on the sea.

"Or if not," she continued, pursuing her own thought with a painful
application, "if it's not worth while to have given up, to have missed
things, so that others may be saved from disillusionment and
misery--then everything I came home for, everything that made my other
life seem by contrast so bare and so poor because no one there took
account of them--all these things are a sham or a dream--"

He tu