Lucy sat up. "No," she said, "I became interested in you first."

That beat him. "You became interested in _me_? Why? Because I didn't
care for you?"

"No," she said sharply; "no! Because I thought that you did."

James felt rather faint. "I can't follow you. You thought that I
didn't, you said?" Lucy was now excited, and full of her wrongs.

"How extraordinary! Surely you see? I had reason to think that you
cared for me very much--oh, very much indeed; and then I found out
that you didn't care a bit more than usual; and then--well, then--"
James, who was too apt to undervalue people, did not attempt to pursue
the embroilment. But he valued her in this melting mood. He held her
very close.

"Well," he said, "and now you find that I do care--and what then?"

She looked at him, divinely shy. "Oh, if you really care--"

This would have made any man care. "Well, if I really do--?"

"Ah!" She hid her face on his shoulder. "I shall love to be in
Norway."

James felt very triumphant; but true to type, he sent her upstairs to
dress with the needless injunction to make herself look pretty.

Presently, however, he stood up and stared hard at the ground. "Good
Lord!" he said. "I wonder what the devil--" Then he raised his
eyebrows to their height. "This is rather interesting."

* * * * *

The instinct was strong in him to make her confess--for clearly there
was something to be known. But against that several things worked. One
was his scorn of the world at large. He felt that it was beneath him
to enquire what that might be endeavouring against his honour or
peace. Another--and a very new feeling to him--was one of compassion.
The poor girl had cried before him--hidden her face on his shoulder
and cried. To use strength, male strength, upon that helplessness; to
break a butterfly on a wheel--upon his soul, he thought he couldn't do
it.

And after all--whether it was Lingen or Urquhart--he was safe. He knew
he was safe because he wanted her. He knew that he _could_ not want
what was not for him. That was against Nature. True to type again, he
laughed at himself, but owned it. She had been gone but five or ten
minutes, but he wanted to see her again--now. He craved the sight of
that charming diffidence of the woman who knows herself desired. He
became embarrassed as he thought of it, but did not cease to desire.
Should he yield to the whim--or hold himself...?

At that moment Lancelot