an obscure air of injury and foreboding. "Not even, it seems, the
most innocent amusements. At the rate," he added, "I have to pay for
them." Again he brooded, while Majendie wondered at him, in brotherly
anxiety. "I suppose," Gorst said suddenly, "I can go up and see Edith,
can't I?"

He spoke as if he doubted, whether, in the wreck of his world, with all
his "innocent amusements," that supreme consolation would be still open
to him.

"Of course you can," said Majendie. "It's the best thing you can do.
I told her you were coming."

"Thanks," said Gorst, checking the alacrity with which he rose to go to
Edith.

Oh yes, he knew it was the best thing he could do.

Edith's voice called gladly to him as he tapped at her door. He entered
noiselessly, wearing the wondering and expectant look with which a new
worshipper enters a holy place. Perpetual backslidings kept poor Gorst's
worship perpetually new.

Colour came slowly back into Edith's face and a tender light into her
eyes, as if from the springing of some deep untroubled well of life. She
seemed more than ever a creature of imperial vitality, bound by some
cruel enchantment to her couch. She held out her hands to him; and he
raised them to his lips and kissed her fingers lightly.

"It's weeks since I've seen you," said she.

"Months, isn't it?" said he.

"Weeks, three weeks, by the calendar."

"I say--tell me--I _am_ to come and see you, just the same?"

"Just the same? Why, what's different?"

"Oh, I don't know. But it seems to me, when a man's married, it's bound
to make a difference."

Edith's colour mounted; she made an effort to control the trembling of
her mouth, the soft woman's mouth where all that was bodily in her love
still lingered. But the sweetness deepened in her eyes, which were the
dwelling-place of the immortal, immaterial power. They met Gorst's eyes
steadily, laying on his restlessness their peace.

"Are you going to be married, Charlie?" said she, and smiled bravely.

He laughed. "Oh, Lord, no; not I."

"Who is, then?"

"Walter, of course. I mean he is married, don't you know."

"Yes, and is there any difference in him to you?"

"In him? Oh, rather not."

"In whom, then?"

"Well--I don't think, Edie, that Mrs. Walter--I like her--" he stuck
to it--"I like her, you know, she's charming, but--I don't think she
particularly cares for _me_."

"How do you know that?"

"How do I know anything? By the way she looks at me."