there was silence--broken only by the
crickets and the frogs and the turning of many leaves by the puffs of a
sudden breeze.

Was she never going to hear the breaking of twigs and the light tread
outside the window? Martin, Martin.

And then Gilbert began to speak. "I can see a long way to-night, Joan,"
he said, in a low voice. "I can see all the way back to the days when I
was a small boy--years away. It's a long stretch."

"Yes, Gilbert," said Joan. (Martin, Martin, did you hear?)

"It's not good for a boy to have no father, my sweet. No discipline, no
strong hand, no man to imitate, no inspiration, no one to try and keep
step with. I see that now. I suffered from all that."

"Did you, Gilbert?" Oh, when would the twigs break and the light step
come? Martin, Martin.

"A spoilt boy, a mother's darling, unthrashed, unled. What a cub at
school with too much money! What a conceited ass at college, buying
deference and friends. I see myself with amazement taking to life with
an air of having done it all, phrase-making and paying deference to
nothing but my excellent profile. God, to have those years over again!
We'd both do things differently given another chance, eh, Joan?"

"Yes, Gilbert." He wasn't coming. He wasn't coming. Martin, Martin.

She strained her ears to catch the sound of breaking twigs. The
crickets and the frogs had the silence to themselves. She got up and
went to the window, with Gilbert at her elbow. She felt that he was
instantly on his feet. Martin's face was not pressed against the
screen. He had heard. She knew that he had heard, because she was
always able to make him hear. But he didn't care. When he had come
before it was for nothing. She had lost him. She was un-Martined. She
was utterly without help. She must give up. What was the good of making
a fight for it now that Martin cared so little as to turn a deaf ear to
her call? He had even forgotten that he had loved her once. Death was
welcome then. Yes, welcome. But there was one way to make some sort of
retribution--just one. She would remain true to Martin.

Gilbert touched her on the arm. "Come, Joan," he said. "The night's
running away. Is it so hard to decide?"

But against her will Nature, to whom life is so precious, put words
into her mouth. "I want you to try and understand something more about
me," she said eagerly.

"The time has gone for arguing," he replied, stiffening a little.

"I'm not going to argue," she went on