ive dusty world. Yet even here, on the
threshold of a secret, absurd, yet perhaps, in its absurdity, lovelier
than man's sterner visions, he felt that, for her sake, he must draw her
away from the contemplation of it. That was one thing he had learned,
for Kitty. She, too, must manage to fly--or fall--out of the nest; she
must get, in some way, more dust into her life. He had forgotten the
news he was to tell her; he had forgotten all but her need.

"Perhaps that is true, dear Kitty," he said; "but isn't it, in a way,
that women are _merely_ in love. It's not with anybody; or, rather, it
is with anybody--with me or with Sir Walter; I mean, anybody who seems
to promise more love. Horrible I sound, I know. Forgive me. But I wish I
could shake you out of being in love. I want you to be more my comrade
than you have been. Don't let us think so much of love."

But Kitty moaned: "I don't want a comrade. I want a lover."

And, in the silence that followed, lifting her head suddenly, she fixed
her eyes on him.

"You talk as if we could be comrades," she said. "You talk as if we were
to go on living together. What did the doctor say? I don't believe that
you are going to die."

He felt ridiculous now. The real tragedy was there, between them; but
the tragedy upon which all their fictitious romance had been built was
to tumble about their ears.

It was as if he had all along been deceiving, misleading her, acting on
false pretences, winning her love by his borrowed funereal splendour.
Almost shamefacedly, looking down and stammering over the silly
confession, he said: "It was all a mistake. I'm not going to die."

He did not look at her for some moments. He was sure that she was deaf
and breathless with the crash and crumbling.

Presently, when he did raise his eyes, he found that she was staring at
him, curiously, intently. She had found herself: she had found him;
and--oh yes--he saw it--he was far from her. The stare, essentially, was
one of a hard hostility. She had been betrayed and robbed; she could
not forgive him.

"Kitty," he said timidly, "are you sorry?"

Her sombre gaze dwelt on him.

"Tell me you're not sorry," he pleaded.

She answered him at last: "How dare you ask me that? How dare you ask me
whether I am sorry that you are not going to die? You must know that it
is an insult."

"I mean--if I disappointed--failed you so--"

"I must wish you dead? You have a charming idea of me."

How her voice c