“I don’t know why it shouldn’t make me—­humanly, which is what we’re speaking of—­as right as it makes you.”

“I see,” Marcher returned. “‘Humanly,’ no doubt, as showing that you’re living for something.  Not, that is, just for me and my secret.”

May Bartram smiled.  “I don’t pretend it exactly shows that I’m not living for you.  It’s my intimacy with you that’s in question.”

He laughed as he saw what she meant.  “Yes, but since, as you say, I’m only, so far as people make out, ordinary, you’re—­aren’t you? no more than ordinary either.  You help me to pass for a man like another.  So if I am, as I understand you, you’re not compromised.  Is that it?”

She had another of her waits, but she spoke clearly enough.  “That’s it.  It’s all that concerns me—­to help you to pass for a man like another.”

He was careful to acknowledge the remark handsomely.  “How kind, how beautiful, you are to me!  How shall I ever repay you?”

She had her last grave pause, as if there might be a choice of ways.  But she chose.  “By going on as you are.”

It was into this going on as he was that they relapsed, and really for so long a time that the day inevitably came for a further sounding of their depths.  These depths, constantly bridged over by a structure firm enough in spite of its lightness and of its occasional oscillation in the somewhat vertiginous air, invited on occasion, in the interest of their nerves, a dropping of the plummet and a measurement of the abyss.  A difference had been made moreover, once for all, by the fact that she had all the while not appeared to feel the need of rebutting his charge of an idea within her that she didn’t dare to express—­a charge uttered just before one of the fullest of their later discussions ended.  It had come up for him then that she “knew” something and that what she knew was bad—­too bad to tell him.  When he had spoken of it as visibly so bad that she was afraid he might find it out, her reply had left the matter too equivocal to be let alone and yet, for Marcher’s special sensibility, almost too formidable again to touch.  He circled about it at a distance that alternately narrowed and widened and that still wasn’t much affected by the consciousness in him that there was nothing she could “know,” after all, any better than he did.  She had no source of knowledge he hadn’t equally—­except of course that she might have finer nerves.  That was what women had where they were interested; they made out things, where people were concerned, that the people often couldn’t have made out for themselves.  Their nerves, their sensibility, their imagination, were conductors and revealers, and the beauty of May Bartram was in particular that she had given herself so to his case.  He felt in these days what, oddly enough, he had never felt before, the growth of a dread of losing her by some catastrophe—­some catastrophe that yet wouldn’t at all be the