ll things he were worthy of his
destiny. The gaze thus prolonged became more than he could bear.

"Do you mind telling me at once what's wrong with her?"

"There isn't anything wrong with her. What fool ever told you that
there was? She has been made ill with grief."

Lucia herself came to him there and led him back into the library.
They sat together in the window-seat, held silent for a little while
by the passing of that shadow of their fear.

"Keith," she said at last. "Is it true that you loved me when you were
with me, here, ever so long ago?"

He answered her.

"And when you came to me and I was horrid to you, and when I sent you
away? And when I never wrote to you, and Horace made you think I'd
forgotten you? Did you love me then?"

"Yes, more than I did before, Lucy."

"But--Keith--you didn't love me when you were loving somebody else?"

"I did, more than ever then. That happened because I loved you."

"I can understand all the rest; but I can't understand that."

"I think I'd rather you didn't understand it, darling."

She sighed, puzzled over it and gave it up. "But you didn't love me
when you--when I--when you wouldn't have me?"

He answered her; but not with words.

"And now," said she, "you're going to Paris to-morrow."

"Perhaps."

"You must. Perhaps they'll be calling for you."

"And perhaps I shan't be there. Do you know, Lucy, you've got violets
growing among the roots of your hair?"

"I know you're going to Paris, to-morrow, to please me."

"Perhaps. And after that we're going to Alassio, and after that to
Florence and Rome; all the places where your private secretary--"

"And when," said she, "is my private secretary going to take me home?"

"If his play succeeds, dear, he won't have to take you to that horrid
house of his."

"Won't he? But I like it best of all."

"Why, Lucy?"

"Oh, for such a foolish reason. Because he's been in it."

"I'm afraid, darling, some of the houses he's been in--"

At that she fell to a sudden breathless sobbing, as if the life that
had come back to her had spent itself again.

In his happiness he had forgotten Howland Street; or if he thought of
it at all he thought of it as an enchanted spot, the stage that had
brought him nearest to the place of his delight.

"Lucy, Lucy, how did you know? I never meant you to."

"Some one told me. And I--I went to see it."

"Good God!"

"I saw your room, the room they carried you out of. If I'd o