or half an hour and talk of
anything she liked. In reality, as she knew, he had but one subject:
himself and his wretchedness; and it was the need of her sympathy that
had drawn him back. But he began with a pretence of questioning her about
herself, and as she replied, she saw that, for the first time, a faint
realization of her plight penetrated the dense surface of his
self-absorption. Was it possible that her old beast of an aunt had
actually cut her off? That she was living alone like this because there
was no one else for her to go to, and that she really hadn't more than
enough to keep alive on till the wretched little legacy was paid? The
fibres of sympathy were nearly atrophied in him, but he was suffering so
intensely that he had a faint glimpse of what other sufferings might
mean--and, as she perceived, an almost simultaneous perception of the way
in which her particular misfortunes might serve him.

When at length she dismissed him, on the pretext that she must dress for
dinner, he lingered entreatingly on the threshold to blurt out: "It's
been such a comfort--do say you'll let me see you again--" But to this
direct appeal it was impossible to give an assent; and she said with
friendly decisiveness: "I'm sorry--but you know why I can't."

He coloured to the eyes, pushed the door shut, and stood before her
embarrassed but insistent. "I know how you might, if you would--if things
were different--and it lies with you to make them so. It's just a word to
say, and you put me out of my misery!"

Their eyes met, and for a second she trembled again with the nearness of
the temptation. "You're mistaken; I know nothing; I saw nothing," she
exclaimed, striving, by sheer force of reiteration, to build a barrier
between herself and her peril; and as he turned away, groaning out "You
sacrifice us both," she continued to repeat, as if it were a charm: "I
know nothing--absolutely nothing."

Lily had seen little of Rosedale since her illuminating talk with Mrs.
Fisher, but on the two or three occasions when they had met she was
conscious of having distinctly advanced in his favour. There could be no
doubt that he admired her as much as ever, and she believed it rested
with herself to raise his admiration to the point where it should bear
down the lingering counsels of expediency. The task was not an easy one;
but neither was it easy, in her long sleepless nights, to face the
thought of what George Dorset was so clear