Yes," he says decidedly, getting up and thrusting his hands into
his coat pockets. "Yes, I do--much the happiest."

There is silence. It is too dark for either to see the other's
expression. He stands irresolutely for a minute or two, and then
says with a disagreeable laugh:

"I should hate my own children! Fancy coming home and finding a lot
of children crying and screaming in the place."

To this the girl says nothing, and Stephen, after a minute's
reflection, softens his words.

"Besides, your wife's love, when she has children, is all given to
them."

"Yes," murmurs her well-bred voice. "Oh, yes, one is happier
without them."

Neither speak. They are agreed so far; there is a deep relief and
pleasure in the breast of each.

"Well," he says at last, rousing himself, "I must go. I shall be
late for dinner."

The girl leans down and stirs the fire into a leaping, yellow
blaze. It fills the room with light, and reveals them fully now to
each other.

She makes no effort to detain him, and they look at each other,
about to part.

The self-control of each is marvellous, and admirable for its mere
thoroughness and completeness.

He has large eyes, and they stare down at her haggardly, as he
stands facing her in the light. The hungry, hopeless look in those
eyes and the drawn lines in his face go to the girl's heart, and to
herself it seems literally melting into one warm flood of sympathy.

Ill! he looks ill and wretched, and she longs with a longing that
presses upon her, till it is like a physical agony, to give some
way to her feelings.

"Dearest, my dearest!" she is thinking, "if I might only tell
you--even a little--"

And Stephen stares at the soft face and warm lips, half-paralyzed
with desire to bend down and kiss them. How would a kiss be? how
would they--And so there is a momentary, barely perceptible pause,
filled with a painful intensity of feeling, to which neither gives
way one hair's breadth. Then he gives a curt laugh.

"We have discussed rather a difficult problem and not settled it,"
he says in a conventional tone.

"It seems to me quite simple," murmurs the girl, with a throat so
dry that the words are hardly audible.

He hears, but makes no reply beyond another slight laugh, as he
holds out his hand. The girl puts hers into it. There is a moderate
pressure only on either side, and then he goes out and shuts the
door, leaving the girl standing motionless--all the warm springs
in