his lips.

It was as if she had really been a little child, wanting the place
kissed to make it well.

VII

After that strange outburst, Lennan considered long whether he should
speak to Oliver. But what could he say, from what standpoint say it,
and--with that feeling? Or should he speak to Dromore? Not very easy to
speak on such a subject to one off whose turf all spiritual matters
were so permanently warned. Nor somehow could he bring himself to tell
Sylvia; it would be like violating a confidence to speak of the child's
outburst and that quivering moment, when she had kneeled and put her hot
forehead to his lips for comfort. Such a disclosure was for Nell herself
to make, if she so wished.

And then young Oliver solved the difficulty by coming to the studio
himself next day. He entered with 'Dromore' composure, very
well groomed, in a silk hat, a cut-away black coat and charming
lemon-coloured gloves; what, indeed, the youth did, besides belonging to
the Yeomanry and hunting all the winter, seemed known only to himself.
He made no excuse for interrupting Lennan, and for some time sat
silently smoking his cigarette, and pulling the ears of the dogs. And
Lennan worked on, waiting. There was always something attractive to him
in this young man's broad, good-looking face, with its crisp dark hair,
and half-insolent good humour, now so clouded.

At last Oliver got up, and went over to the unfinished 'Girl on the
Magpie Horse.' Turning to it so that his face could not be seen, he
said:

"You and Mrs. Lennan have been awfully kind to me; I behaved rather like
a cad yesterday. I thought I'd better tell you. I want to marry Nell,
you know."

Lennan was glad that the young man's face was so religiously averted.
He let his hands come to anchor on what he was working at before he
answered: "She's only a child, Oliver;" and then, watching his fingers
making an inept movement with the clay, was astonished at himself.

"She'll be eighteen this month," he heard Oliver say. "If she once gets
out--amongst people--I don't know what I shall do. Old Johnny's no good
to look after her."

The young man's face was very red; he was forgetting to hide it now.
Then it went white, and he said through clenched teeth: "She sends me
mad! I don't know how not to--If I don't get her, I shall shoot myself.
I shall, you know--I'm that sort. It's her eyes. They draw you right out
of yourself--and leave you--" And from his gloved hand