She could not tell him.  Only her panic was very real.  It shook her from head to foot.  A fierce struggle was going on within her,—­the last bitter conflict between her love and her fear.  It tore her in all directions.  She felt as if it would drive her mad.  But through it all she still clung desperately to the bony hand that grasped her own.  It seemed to sustain her, to hold her up, through all her chaos of doubt, of irresolution, of miserable, overmastering dread.

“What is it frightens you?” he said again.  “Why won’t you look at me?  There is nothing whatever to make you afraid!”

He spoke softly, as though he were addressing a scared child.  But still she was afraid, afraid of the very impulse that urged her, horribly afraid of meeting the darting scrutiny of his eyes.

He waited for a little in silence; then suddenly with a sharp sigh he straightened himself.  “You don’t know your own mind yet,” he said.  “And I can’t help you to know it.  I had better go.”

He would have withdrawn his hand with the words, but she held it fast.

“No, Nick, no!  It isn’t that,” she told him tremulously.  “I know what I want—­perfectly well.  But—­but—­I can’t put it into words.  I can’t!  I can’t!”

“Is that it?” said Nick.  His manner changed completely.  He bent down again.  She heard the old note of banter in his voice, but mingled with it was a tenderness so utter that she scarcely recognised it.  “Then, my dear girl, in Heaven’s name, don’t try!  Words were not made for such an occasion as this.  They are clumsy tools at the best of times.  You can make me understand without words.  I’m horribly intelligent, as you remarked just now.”

Her heart leapt to the rapid assurance.  Was it so difficult to tell him after all?  Surely she could find a way!

The tumult of her emotions swelled to sudden uproar, thunderous, all-possessing, overwhelming, so that she gasped and gasped again for breath.  And then all in a moment she knew that the conflict was over.  She was as a diver, hurling with headlong velocity from dizzy height into deep waters, and she rejoiced—­she exulted—­in that mad rush into depth.

With a quivering laugh she moved.  She loosened her convulsive clasp upon his hand, turned it upwards, and stooping low, she pressed her lips closely, passionately, lingeringly, upon his open palm.  She had found a way.

He started sharply at her action; he almost winced.  Then, “Muriel!” he exclaimed in a voice that broke, and threw himself on his knees beside her, holding her fast in a silence so sudden and so tense that she also was awed into a great stillness.

Yet, after a little, though his face was pressed against her so that she could not see it or even vaguely guess his mood, she found strength to speak.

“I can tell you what I want now, Nick,” she whispered.  “Shall I tell you?”

He did not answer, did not so much as breathe.  But yet she knew no fear or hesitancy.  Her eyes were opened, and her tongue loosed.  Words came easily to her now, more easily than they had ever come before.