r
the first time since her widowhood she felt that she had been
living her life out along lines that lay closer to solitude than to
the happy freedom of which she had reluctantly dreamed locked in
the manacles of a loveless marriage.

For her marriage had been one of romantic pity, born of the
ignorance of her immaturity; and she was very young when she became
the wife of Warfield Paige--Celia's brother--a gentle,
sweet-tempered invalid, dreamy, romantic, and pitifully confident
of life, the days of which were already numbered.

Of the spiritual passions she knew a little--of the passion of
pity, of consent, of self-sacrifice, of response to spiritual need.
But neither in her early immaturity nor in later adolescence had
she ever before entertained even the most innocent inclination for
a man. Man's attractions, physical and personal, had left only the
lightest of surface impressions--until the advent of this man.

To what in him was she responsive? What intellectual charm had he
revealed? What latent spiritual excellence did she suspect? What
were his lesser qualities--the simpler moral virtues--the admirable
attributes which a woman could recognise. Nay, where even were the
nobler failings, the forgivable faults, the promise of future
things?

Her uplifted, questioning eyes searched and fell. Only the
clear-cut beauty of his head answered her, only the body's grace.

She sometimes suspected pity as her one besetting sin. Was it pity
for this man--a young man only twenty-four, her own age, so
cheerful under the crushing weight of material ruin? Was it his
poverty that appealed?

Was it her instinct to protect? If all she heard was true, he
sorely needed protection from himself. For tales of him had
filtered to her young ears--indefinite rumours of unworthy
things--of youth wasted and manhood threatened--of excesses
incomprehensible to her, and to those who hinted them to her.

Was it his solitude in the world for which she was sorry? She had
no parents, either. But she had their house and their memories
concrete in every picture, every curtain, every chair and sofa.
Twilight whispered of them through every hallway, every room; dawn
was instinct with their unseen spirits, sweetening everything in
the quiet old house. . . . And that day she had learned _where_ he
lived. And she dared not imagine _how_.

They turned together into the quiet, tree-shaded street, and, in
the mellow sunset light, s