He waited therefore in silence, watching her face, the tender lines of her mouth, the sweet curves that in childhood must have made a perfect picture of happiness.

She raised her eyes at length.  “Dr. Tudor!”

And then she realized his scrutiny, and a soft flush rose and overspread her pale face.  She lifted her straight brows questioningly.

And all in a moment Tudor found himself speaking,—­not of his own volition, not the words he had meant to speak, but nervously, stammeringly, giving utterance to the thoughts that suddenly welled over from his soul.  “I’ve been wanting to speak for ages.  I couldn’t get it out.  But it’s no good keeping it in, is it?  I don’t get any nearer that way.  I don’t want to vex you, make you feel uncomfortable.  No one knows better than I that I haven’t much to offer.  But I can give you a home and—­and all my love, if you will have it.  It may seem a small thing to you, but it’s bigger than the calf-love of an infant like young Evesham.  I know he dared to let his fancy stray your way, and you see now what it was worth.  But mine—­mine isn’t fancy.”

And there he stopped; for Avery had risen and was facing him in the firelight with eyes of troubled entreaty.

“Oh, please,” she said, “please don’t go on!”

He stood upright with a jerk.  The distress on her face restored his normal self-command more quickly than any words.  Half-mechanically he reached out and took her tea-cup, setting it down on the mantelpiece before her.

“Don’t be upset!” he said.  “I didn’t mean to upset you.  I shan’t go on, if it is against your wish.”

“It is,” said Avery.  She spoke tremulously, locking her hands fast together.  “It must be my own fault,” she said, “I’m dreadfully sorry.  I hoped you weren’t—­really in earnest.”

He smiled at that with a touch of cynicism.  “Did you think I was amusing myself—­or you?  Sit down again, won’t you?  There is no occasion whatever for you to be distressed.  I assure you that you are in no way to blame.”

“I am dreadfully sorry,” Avery repeated.

“That’s nice of you.  I had scarcely dared to flatter myself that you would be—­glad.  So you see, you have really nothing to reproach yourself with.  I am no worse off than I was before.”

She put out her hand to him with a quick, confiding gesture.  “You are very kind to put it in that way.  I value your friendship so much, so very much.  Yes, and I value your love too.  It’s not a small thing to me.  Only, you know—­you know—­” she faltered a little—­“I’ve been married before, and—­though I loved my husband—­my married life was a tragedy.  Oh yes, he loved me too.  It wasn’t that sort of misery.  It was—­it was drink.”

“Poor girl!” said Tudor.

He spoke with unwonted gentleness, and he held her hand with the utmost kindness.  There was nothing of the rejected lover in his attitude.  He was man enough to give her his first sympathy.