Her eyes turned from his.  He rose unsteadily, supported on one arm; she sprang to her feet, looked at him, and, as he made an awkward effort to rise, suddenly bent forward and gave him both hands in aid.

“Wait—­wait!” she said; “let me try to think, if I can.  Don’t speak to me again—­not yet—­not now.”

But, at intervals, as they descended the flights of stairs, she turned instinctively to watch his progress, for he still moved with difficulty.

In the drawing-room they halted, he leaning heavily on the back of a chair, she, distrait, restless, pacing the polished parquet, treading her roses under foot, turning from time to time to look at him—­a strange, direct, pure-lidded gaze that seemed to freshen his very soul.

Once he stooped and picked up one of the trodden roses bruised by her slim foot; once, as she passed him, pacing absently the space between the door and him, he spoke her name.

But:  “Wait!” she breathed.  “You have said everything.  It is for me to reply—­if I speak at all.  C-can’t you wait for—­me?”

“Have I angered you?”

She halted, head high, superb in her slim, young beauty.

“Do I look it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nor I. Let me find out.”

The room had become dimmer; the light on her hair and face and hands glimmered dully as she passed and re-passed him in her restless progress—­ restless, dismayed, frightened progress toward a goal she already saw ahead—­close ahead of her—­every time she turned to look at him.  She already knew the end.

That man!  And she knew that already he must be, for her, something that she could never again forget—­something she must reckon with forever and ever while life endured.

She paused and inspected him almost insolently.  Suddenly the rush of the last revolt overwhelmed her; her eyes blazed, her white hands tightened into two small clenched fists—­and then tumult died in her ringing ears, the brightness of the eyes was quenched, her hands relaxed, her head sank low, lower, never again to look on this man undismayed, heart free, unafraid—­never again to look into this man’s eyes with the unthinking, unbelieving tranquillity born of the most harmless skepticism in the world.

She stood there in silence, heard his step beside her, raised her head with an effort.

“Betty!”

Her hands quivered, refusing surrender.  He bent and lifted them, pressing them to his eyes, his forehead.  Then lowered them to the level of his lips, holding them suspended, eyes looking into hers, waiting.

Suddenly her eyes closed, a convulsive little tremor swept her, she pressed both clasped hands against his lips, her own moved, but no words came—­only a long, sweet, soundless sigh, soft as the breeze that stirs the crimson maple buds when the snows of spring at last begin to melt.

From a dark corner under the piano Clarence watched them furtively.