She did not look at him.  She was too near the end of her strength.  Her heart was beating very slowly, like a run-down watch.  She felt like an old, old woman, utterly tired of life.  And she was cold—­cold from head to foot.

Minutes passed.  Somewhere away in the night an owl hooted, and Nap turned his head sharply, as one accustomed to take note of every sound.  A while longer he stood, seeming to listen, every limb alert and tense, then swiftly he wheeled and gazed full at the drooping woman’s figure on the bench.

Slowly his attitude changed.  Something that was bestial went out of it; something that was human took its place.  Quietly at length he crossed the moonlit space that intervened between them, reached her, knelt beside her.

“Anne,” he said, and all her life she remembered the deep melancholy of his voice, “I am a savage—­a brute—­a devil.  But I swear that I have it in me to love you—­as you deserve to be loved.  Won’t you have patience with me?  Won’t you give me a chance—­the only chance I’ve ever had—­of getting above myself, of learning what love can be?  Won’t you trust me with your friendship once more?  Believe me, I’m not all brute.”

She thrilled like a dead thing waked to life.  Her dread of the man passed away like an evil dream, such was the magic he had for her.  She slipped one of her cold hands down to him.

He caught it, bowed his head upon it, pressed it against his eyes, then lifted his face and looked up at her.

“It is not the end then?  You haven’t given me up in disgust?”

And she answered him in the only way possible to her.  “I will be your friend still, only—­only let there never again be any talk of love between us.  That alone will end our friendship.  Can I trust you?  Nap, can I?”

He jerked back his head at the question, and showed her his face in the full moonlight.  And she saw that his eyes were still and passionless, unfathomable as a mountain pool.

“If you can bring yourself—­if you will stoop—­to kiss me,” he said, “I think you will know.”

She started at the words, but she knew instantly that she had nought to fear.  His voice was as steady as his eyes.  He asked this thing of her as a sign of her forgiveness, of her friendship, of her trust; and every generous impulse urged her to grant it.  She knew that if she refused he would get up and go away, cut to the heart.  She seemed to feel him pleading with her, earnestly beseeching her, reasoning against prejudice, against the shackles of conventionality, against reason itself.  And through it all her love for the man throbbed at the very heart of her, overriding all doubt.

She leaned towards him; she laid her hands upon his shoulders.

“In token of my trust!” she said, and bent to kiss his forehead.

But he gave her his lips instead—­the thin, cynical lips that were wont to smile so bitterly.  There was no bitterness about them now.  They were only grave to sternness.  And so, after a moment, she kissed him as he wished, and he kissed her in return.