Violet Oliver looked curiously at Linforth—­curiously, and rather quickly.  But it seemed that he at all events did not remember that he had not come alone down to La Grave.

“It isn’t that I have come to care less for the Road,” he went on.  “Not by one jot.  Rather, indeed, I care more.  But I can’t dissociate you from the Road.  The Road’s my life-work; but it will be the better done if it’s done with your help.  It will be done best of all if it’s done for you.”

Violet Oliver turned away quickly, and stood with her head averted.  Ardently she longed to take him at his word.  A glimpse of a great life was vouchsafed to her, such as she had not dreamt of.  That some time she would marry again, she had not doubted.  But always she had thought of her husband to be, as a man very rich, with no ambition but to please her, no work to do which would thwart her.  And here was another life offered, a life upon a higher, a more difficult plane; but a life much more worth living.  That she saw clearly enough.  But out of her self-knowledge sprang the insistent question: 

“Could I live it?”

There would be sacrifices to be made by her.  Could she make them?  Would not dissatisfaction with herself follow very quickly upon her marriage?  Out of her dissatisfaction would there not grow disappointment in her husband?  Would not bitterness spring up between them and both their lives be marred?

Dick was still holding her hand.

“Let me see you,” he said, drawing her towards him.  “Let me see your face!”

She turned and showed it.  There was a great trouble in her eyes, her voice was piteous as she spoke.

“Dick, I can’t answer you.  When I told you that I came here on purpose to meet you, that I wanted to see you again, it was true, all true.  But oh, Dick, did I mean more?”

“How should I know?” said Dick, with a quiet laugh—­a laugh of happiness.

“I suppose that I did.  I wanted you to say just what you have said to-night.  Yet now that you have said it—­” she broke off with a cry.  “Dick, I have met no one like you in my life.  And I am very proud.  Oh, Dick, my boy!” And she gave him her other hand.  Tears glistened in her eyes.

“But I am not sure,” she went on.  “Now that you have spoken, I am not sure.  It would be all so different from what my life has been, from what I thought it would be.  Dick, you make me ashamed.”

“Hush!” he said gently, as one might chide a child for talking nonsense.  He put an arm about her, and she hid her face in his coat.

“Yes, that’s the truth, Dick.  You make me ashamed.”

So she remained for a little while, and then she drew herself away.

“I will think and tell you, Dick,” she said.

“Tell me now!”

“No, not yet.  It’s all your life and my life, you know, Dick.  Give me a little while.”

“I go away to-morrow.”