It was more than she could bear.  She covered her eyes, striving to shut out the sight that tortured her weary brain.  “Oh, I don’t know if I can!” she almost wailed.  “I don’t know if I can!”

Nick did not move.  And yet it seemed to her in those moments of reawakened horror as if by some magnetic force he still held her fast.  She strove against it with all her frenzied strength, but it eluded her, baffled her—­conquered her.

When he spoke at length, she turned and listened, lacking the motive-power to resist.

“There is nothing to frighten you anyhow,” he said, and the tone in which he said it was infinitely comforting, infinitely reassuring.  “I only want to take care of you; for you’re a lonely little soul, not old enough, or wise enough to look after yourself.  And I’ll be awfully good to you, Muriel, if you’ll have me.”

Something in those last words—­a hint of pleading, of coaxing even—­found its way to her heart, as it were, against her will.  Moreover, what he said was true.  She was lonely:  miserably, unspeakably lonely.  All her world was in ashes around her, and there were times when its desolation positively appalled her.

But still she stood irresolute.  Could she, dared she, take this step?  What if that phantom of horror pursued her relentlessly to the day of her death?  Would she not come in time to shrink with positive loathing from this man whose offer of help she now felt so strangely tempted in her utter friendlessness to accept?

It was impossible to answer these tormenting questions satisfactorily.  But there was nothing—­so she told herself—­to be gained by waiting.  She had no one to advise her, no one really to mind what happened to her, with the single exception of this friend of hers, who only wanted to take care of her.  And after all, since misery was to be her portion, what did it matter?  Why should she refuse to listen to him?  Had he not shown her already that he could be kind?

A sudden warmth of gratitude towards him stirred in her heart—­a tiny flame springing up among the ashes of her youth.  Her horror sank away like an evil dream.

She turned round with a certain deliberation that had grown upon her of late, and went back to Nick still seated on the sofa.

“I don’t care much what I do now,” she said wearily.  “I will marry you, if you wish it, if—­if you are quite sure you will never wish you hadn’t.”

“Well done!” said Nick, with instant approval.  “That’s settled then, for I was quite sure of that ages ago.”

He smiled at her quizzically, his face a mask of banter.  Of what his actual feelings were at that moment she had not the faintest idea.

With a piteous little smile in answer she laid her hand upon his knee.  “You will have to be very patient with me,” she said tremulously.  “For remember—­I have come to the end of everything, and you are the only friend I have left.”