went up to her when he came in, and this time
he did not fail; though his lips paled a little as he went upstairs, for
the thought forced itself upon him that Lettice might have made things
worse, not better, between himself and his wife.

The daylight was fading as he entered the room. Nan was lying down, but
she was not asleep, for she turned her head towards him as he entered.
He noticed the movement. Of late she had always averted her face when he
came near her. He wished that he could see her more plainly, but she was
wrapped in shadow, and the room was almost dark.

He asked after her health as usual, and whether Lettice had been and
gone. Then silence fell between them, but he felt that Nan was looking
at him intently, and he did not dare to turn away.

"Sydney," she said at last. "Will you come here? Close to me. I want to
say something----"

"Yes, Nan?"

He bent down over her, with something like a new hope in his heart. What
was she going to say to him?

"Sydney--will you take me to Switzerland?"

"Certainly." Was that all? "When shall we go?"

"When can you leave London?"

"To-morrow. Any time."

"You really would give up all your engagements, all your prospects, for
me?"

"Willingly, Nan."

"I begin to believe," she said, softly, "that you do care for me--a
little."

"Nan! Oh, Nan, have you doubted it?"

Her hand stole gently into his; she drew him down beside her.

"Dear Sydney, come, here. Put your arm right round me--so. Now I can
speak. I want to tell you something--many things. It is Lettice that has
made me think I ought to say all this. Do you know, I have felt for a
long, long time as if you had killed me--killed the best part of me, I
mean--the soul that loved you, the belief in all that was good and true.
That is why I have been so miserable. I did not know how to bear it. I
thought that I did not love you; but I have loved you all the time; and
now--now----"

"Now?" said Sydney. She felt that the arm on which she leaned was
trembling like a leaf.

"Now I could love you better than ever--if I knew one thing--if I dared
ask----"

"You may ask what you like," he said, in a husky voice.

"It is not such a very great thing," she said, simply; "it is only what
you yourself think about the past: whether you think with me that it is
something to be sorry about, or something to be justified. I feel as if
I could forget it if I knew that you were sorry; and if you justified
it--as