At this, for a minute, their lightness gave way to their gravity; it was as if the long look they exchanged held them together.  “It will only depend on yourself—­if you’ll watch with me.”

“Are you afraid?” she asked.

“Don’t leave me now,” he went on.

“Are you afraid?” she repeated.

“Do you think me simply out of my mind?” he pursued instead of answering.  “Do I merely strike you as a harmless lunatic?”

“No,” said May Bartram.  “I understand you.  I believe you.”

“You mean you feel how my obsession—­poor old thing—­may correspond to some possible reality?”

“To some possible reality.”

“Then you will watch with me?”

She hesitated, then for the third time put her question.  “Are you afraid?”

“Did I tell you I was—­at Naples?”

“No, you said nothing about it.”

“Then I don’t know.  And I should like to know,” said John Marcher.  “You’ll tell me yourself whether you think so.  If you’ll watch with me you’ll see.”

“Very good then.”  They had been moving by this time across the room, and at the door, before passing out, they paused as for the full wind-up of their understanding.  “I’ll watch with you,” said May Bartram.

CHAPTER II

The fact that she “knew”—­knew and yet neither chaffed him nor betrayed him—­had in a short time begun to constitute between them a goodly bond, which became more marked when, within the year that followed their afternoon at Weatherend, the opportunities for meeting multiplied.  The event that thus promoted these occasions was the death of the ancient lady her great-aunt, under whose wing, since losing her mother, she had to such an extent found shelter, and who, though but the widowed mother of the new successor to the property, had succeeded—­thanks to a high tone and a high temper—­in not forfeiting the supreme position at the great house.  The deposition of this personage arrived but with her death, which, followed by many changes, made in particular a difference for the young woman in whom Marcher’s expert attention had recognised from the first a dependent with a pride that might ache though it didn’t bristle.  Nothing for a long time had made him easier than the thought that the aching must have been much soothed by Miss Bartram’s now finding herself able to set up a small home in London.  She had acquired property, to an amount that made that luxury just possible, under her aunt’s extremely complicated will, and when the whole matter began to be straightened out, which indeed took time, she let him know that the happy issue was at last in view.  He had seen her again before that day, both because she had more than once accompanied the ancient lady to town and because he had paid another visit to the friends who so conveniently made of Weatherend one of the charms of their own hospitality.  These