She was sitting, her hands lying idly in her lap, gazing dreamily at the drifting clouds above.  Without taking the trouble to change her position, she asked, “How so?”

“You are in love with George Clifton.”

“What an amount of penetration you have, Dr. Grey!”

“You are always with him.”

“Why should I not be? he is the safest man I know.”

“I hope your confidence is not misplaced.”  Maurice turned, and, shading his face with his hand, looked at the setting sun, although he would have required the eye of an eagle to enjoy its brilliancy.  “She acknowledges her preference,” thought the young man bitterly, but in the midst of the turmoil her words occasioned he heard her tranquilly saying, “If I were with him a hundred years there would be no danger of my falling in love with him.”

Maurice gave a start that caused the water about the boat to dance, but before he could enjoy in full the satisfaction of her last remark, another fear suggested itself.  “Perhaps you come with me for the same reason,” said he.

“You are my physician.”

“I find to my cost that physicians are as capable of loving as other men, but whether their love will be returned is another matter.”

Emotion has its peculiar language.  Though he strove to be calm, there was a ring in his voice that was unusual, and Fay could not but notice it.  “Are you in love, doctor?” she asked gently.  “I might help you if I knew with whom it is.  Could you tell me?”

Was it worth while to reply to so unconscious, so friendly, a question by the truth?  Why ask?  What man, having gone so far, would be content to stop?  Letting his eyes speak for him, he met her innocent questioning look by a long imploring gaze as he whispered, “You.”

As he spoke the expression came over her face that he had noticed when he had first crossed her path with Mrs. Felton:  the color forsook her cheeks, the dreamy composure of her attitude vanished, and she murmured in a scared, helpless tone, “Do you want to kill me?”

“No, no:  do not think that,” he hastily replied.  Then seeing the boat had drifted behind a little island that hid them from view, he moved and sat on the floor beside her.  “Dear Fay, believe me there is no reality in your foreknowledge.  Such a thing is impossible.  Love me, Fay, and I will shield you from any evil that may happen.  Do not let those sick fancies mislead you:  they are gone never to return.”

“Take me home, take me home,” she sobbed, covering her face with her hands.  “Oh why do you talk to me in this way?  It is unkind.  You know it cannot be.  I will not listen to another word.  Take me home.”

Dr. Grey was too wise to insist.  Love had quickened his intuitions.  He would have liked to take her in his arms and chase this threatening horror from her mind:  he was eager to plead his cause, to assure her of his devotion, but without a word he resumed his seat and obeyed.