back. But I met young Burgess, and the next
thing I knew I was at Euston. And here I am pretending that it's my new
London branch that brings me over, and doing business I don't want to do
in Knype and Cauldon and Bursley. And I'm killing myself--yes, I am; I
tell you I couldn't stand much more--and I wouldn't be sure I wasn't
killing you. Some folks would say the whole thing was perfectly
dreadful, but I don't care so long as you--so long as you don't. I'm not
conceited really, but it looks like conceit--me talking like this and
assuming that you're ready to stand and listen. I assure you it isn't
conceit. I only know--that's all. It's difficult for you to say
anything--I can feel that--but I'd like you just to tell me you're glad
I came and glad I've spoken. I'd just like to hear that.'

She gazed fondly at him, at the male creature in whom she could find
only perfection, and she was filled with glorious pride that her image
should have drawn this strong, shrewd self-possessed man across the
Atlantic. It was incredible, but it was true. 'And,' said the secret
feminine in her, 'why not?'

He waited for her answer, facing her.

'Oh, yes!' she breathed. 'Oh, yes!... I'm glad--I'm so glad.'

'I wish,' he broke out, 'I wish I could explain to you what I think of
you, what I feel about you. You're so quiet and simple and direct and
yet--you don't know it, but you are. You're absolutely the most--Oh!
it's no use.'

She saw that he was growing very excited, and this, too, gave her deep
pleasure.

'We're in a hell of a fix!' he sighed.

Like many women, she took a fearful, almost thrilling joy in hearing a
man swear earnestly and religiously.

'That's it,' she said, 'there's nothing to be done?'

'Nothing to be done?' he demanded, imperiously. 'Nothing to be done?'

She examined his face, which was close to hers, with a meditative,
expectant smile. She loved to see him out of repose, eager, masterful,
and daring. 'What is there to be done?' she asked.

'I don't know yet,' he said firmly, 'I must think.' Then, in a delicious
surrender, she felt towards him as though they were on the brink of a
rushing river, and he was about to pick her up in his arms, like a
trifle, and carry her safely through the flood; and she had the illusion
of pressing her face, which she knew he adored, against his shoulder.

'Oh, you innocent angel!' he cried, seizing her hand (she let it lie
inert), 'do you suppose I'm the sort of man to