“He deserves the best,” she said warmly.

“Yes, but you don’t take me,” said Capper.

He paused a moment, then suddenly laid a quiet hand on her shoulder.  “I may be a wise man,” he said, “and again I may be a meddling fool.  You and the gods must decide between you.  But I’m old enough to be your father anyway.  So p’r’aps you’ll bear with me.  Lady Carfax, hasn’t it struck you that a time will come—­probably pretty soon—­when he will begin to reach out for something that you—­and you alone—­can give?”

Anne’s quick gesture of protest was his answer.  She stood motionless, her eyes still raised, waiting for him to continue.  But he felt her tremble under his hand.  He knew that inwardly she was not so calm as she would have had him think.

He went on in his precise, emotionless fashion, as though he perceived nothing.  “He won’t ask for it—­anyway till he feels he can make a fair return.  He will never ask a sacrifice of you.  He will break his heart sooner.  The point is, Are you capable of offering the sacrifice unasked?  For that is what it amounts to, now that the gods have cleared the way.”

“Ah!” Anne said.  “And—­if—­not?”

She spoke rather as if to gain time than because she desired an answer.

But he answered her nevertheless very quietly, without a shade of emotion, as if he were discussing some technical matter of no personal interest to him.  Only as he answered he took his hand from her shoulder and thrust it back into his pocket.

“In that case he will die, having nothing left to live for.  He probably won’t suffer much, simply go out like a candle.  He hasn’t much vitality.  He may die either way.  There is no responsibility attached—­only possibilities.”

He turned with the words, and walked across the room with the air of a man who has said his say.

She uttered no word to stop him, nor did she move to follow.  She stood alone with her face to the grey storm-clouds that drifted perpetually overhead.  Somehow she did not for a moment doubt the truth of what Capper had just told her.  She even felt sub-consciously that she had known it for some time.  Neither did she ask herself what she was going to do.  For deep in the heart of her she knew already.  Deep in the heart of her she knew that when Lucas Errol began to reach out for something which she alone could give, it would not be in vain.  He had given of his best to her, and she was ready to give of her best in return.  If she could not give him passion, she could give him that which was infinitely greater—­a deep, abiding love, a devotion born of complete sympathy.  She could give him happiness, and in the giving she might find it for herself.

Over in the west the clouds were breaking, and a shaft of pale sunshine streamed upon the distant hills, turning the woods to living gold.  Her eyes brightened a little as they caught the radiance.  It seemed as if the door before which she had knelt so long in impotence were opening to her at last, as if one more opportunity were to be given her even yet after long and bitter failure of turning her corner of the desert into a garden of flowers and singing birds.