where it seems to be
true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made
no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was
sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never
speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole
continent of her soul in darkness.

"It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an
afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take
his place. We may put it off for some time in fact."

"That's rather hard on him, isn't it?" Ralph asked.

"He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest
him.... I know I've been to that place," she broke off, pointing to
a photograph. "But I can't remember where it is--oh, of course it's
Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?"

"I'm not going to take it."

"How you change your mind!" she smiled.

"It's not that," he said impatiently. "It's that I want to be where I
can see you."

"Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I've said?" she asked.

"For ever, so far as I'm concerned," he replied.

"You're going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories
about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we're riding
in a forest, or landing on an island--"

"No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the
accounts, showing old ladies the relics--"

"That's better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning
looking up dates in the 'Dictionary of National Biography.'"

"And forgetting your purse," Ralph added.

At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either
because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was
capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was
he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not
something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked
her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of
speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask
what she could not put into words, she turned and bade him good night.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Like a strain of music, the effect of Katharine's presence slowly died
from the room in which Ralph sat alone. The music had ceased in the
rapture of its melody. He strained to catch the faintest lingering
echoes; for a moment the memory lulled him into peace; but soon it
failed, and he paced the room