ave."

"But it's so different. Of course I shall go to Sawston. You forget
my father; and even if he wasn't there, I've a hundred ties: my
district--I'm neglecting it shamefully--my evening classes, the St.
James'--"

"Silly nonsense!" he exploded, suddenly moved to have the whole thing
out with her. "You're too good--about a thousand times better than I am.
You can't live in that hole; you must go among people who can hope to
understand you. I mind for myself. I want to see you often--again and
again."

"Of course we shall meet whenever you come down; and I hope that it will
mean often."

"It's not enough; it'll only be in the old horrible way, each with a
dozen relatives round us. No, Miss Abbott; it's not good enough."

"We can write at all events."

"You will write?" he cried, with a flush of pleasure. At times his hopes
seemed so solid.

"I will indeed."

"But I say it's not enough--you can't go back to the old life if you
wanted to. Too much has happened."

"I know that," she said sadly.

"Not only pain and sorrow, but wonderful things: that tower in the
sunlight--do you remember it, and all you said to me? The theatre, even.
And the next day--in the church; and our times with Gino."

"All the wonderful things are over," she said. "That is just where it
is."

"I don't believe it. At all events not for me. The most wonderful things
may be to come--"

"The wonderful things are over," she repeated, and looked at him so
mournfully that he dare not contradict her. The train was crawling up
the last ascent towards the Campanile of Airolo and the entrance of the
tunnel.

"Miss Abbott," he murmured, speaking quickly, as if their free
intercourse might soon be ended, "what is the matter with you? I
thought I understood you, and I don't. All those two great first days at
Monteriano I read you as clearly as you read me still. I saw why you
had come, and why you changed sides, and afterwards I saw your wonderful
courage and pity. And now you're frank with me one moment, as you used
to be, and the next moment you shut me up. You see I owe too much to
you--my life, and I don't know what besides. I won't stand it. You've
gone too far to turn mysterious. I'll quote what you said to me: 'Don't
be mysterious; there isn't the time.' I'll quote something else: 'I and
my life must be where I live.' You can't live at Sawston."

He had moved her at last. She whispered to herself hurriedly. "It is
tempting--" And th