--that I don't seem to make much difference to you. And now
this is very serious--giving up Mannering. _You_ may mind it much
more than you think. And if--'

'If what? Go on!'

She raised her eyes again and looked at him straight.

'If I can't make up?'

The colour flooded into his face, as though, far within, something
stirred 'like a guilty thing surprised.' But he said tenderly:

'I don't care _that_, Beryl'--he snapped his fingers--'for Mannering
in comparison with you.'

Her breath fluttered a little, but she went on resolutely. 'But I
must say it--I must tell you what I feel. It seems the right
opportunity. So often, Aubrey, I don't seem to understand you! I say
the wrong thing. I'm not clever. I haven't any deep thoughts--like
you or Arthur. It would be terrible if you married me, and then--I
felt you were disappointed.'

He moved a little away from her and, propping his chin on his hands,
looked gravely through the thinning branches of the wood.

'I wonder why you say that--I wonder what I've done!'

'Oh, you've done nothing!' cried Beryl. 'It's only I
feel--sometimes--that--that you don't let me know things--share
things. You seem sometimes so sad--and I can't be any help--you
won't let me! That's what I mind so much--so dreadfully!'

He was silent a moment. Then without any attempt at caresses, he
said, 'I wonder, Beryl, whether you--whether you--ever realize--what
we soldiers have _seen_? No!--thank God!--you don't--you can't.'

She pressed her hands to her eyes, and shuddered.

'No, of course I can't--of course I can't!' she said passionately.

Then, while her eyes were still hidden, there passed through
his worn features a sharp spasm, as of some uncontrollable
anguish--passed and was gone.

He turned towards her, and she looked up. If ever love, all-giving,
self-forgetting, was written on a girl's face, it was written on
Beryl's then. Her wild-rose colour came and went; her eyes were full
of tears. She had honestly made her attempt, but she could not carry
it through, and he saw it. Some vague hope--of which he was
ashamed--died away. Profoundly touched, he put out his arms, and
making nothing of her slight resistance, gathered her close to him.

'Did you ever read _Sintram_, Beryl?'

'Yes, years ago.'

'Do you remember his black fits--how they came upon him
unexpectedly--and only Verena could help him? It's like that with me
sometimes. Things I've seen--horrible sufferings and death-