“My dear!  Oh, my dear!” she said.  “Are you praying for me?”

“Dinah!” he said.

Just her name, no more; but spoken in a tone that thrilled her through and through!  He leaned against her for a few moments, almost as if he feared to move.  Then, as one gathering strength, he uttered a great sigh and slowly got to his feet.

“You mustn’t bother about me,” he said, and the sudden rapture had all gone out of his voice; it had the flatness of utter weariness.  “I shall be all right.”

But Dinah’s hands yet clung to his shoulders.  Those moments of yielding had revealed to her more than any subsequent word or action could belie.  Her eyes, shining with a great light, looked straight into his.

“Dear Scott!  Dear Greatheart!” she said, and her voice trembled over the tender utterance of the name.  “Are you in trouble?  Can’t I help?”

He took her face between his hands, looking straight back into the shining eyes.  “You are the trouble, Dinah,” he told her simply.  “And I’d give all I have—­I’d give my soul—­to make life easier for you.”

She leaned towards him, and suddenly those shining eyes were blurred with a glimmer of tears.  “Life is dreadfully difficult,” she said.  “But you have never done anything but help me.  And, oh, Scott, I—­don’t know if I ought to tell you—­forgive me if it’s wrong—­but—­but I feel I must—­” her breath came so quickly that she could hardly utter the words—­“I love you—­I love you—­better than anyone else in the world!”

“Dinah!” he said, as one incredulous.

“It’s true!” she panted.  “It’s true!  Eustace knows it—­has known it almost as long as I have.  It isn’t the only thing I have to tell you, but it’s the first—­and biggest.  And even though—­even though—­I shall never be anything more to you than I am now—­I’m glad—­I’m proud—­for you to know.  There’s nothing else that counts in the same way.  And though—­though I refused you the other day—­I wanted you—­dreadfully, dreadfully.  If—­if I had only been good enough for you—­But—­but—­I’m not!” She broke off, battling with herself.

He was still holding her face between his hands, and there was something of insistence, something that even bordered upon ruthlessness, in his hold.  Though the tears were running down her face, he would not let her go.

“Will you tell me what you mean by that?” he said, his voice very low.  “Or—­must I ask Eustace?”

She started.  There was that in his tone that made her wince inexplicably.  “Oh no,” she said, “no!  I’ll tell you myself—­if—­if you must know.”

“I am afraid I must,” he said, and for all their resolution, the words had a sound of deadly weariness.  He let her go slowly as he uttered them.  “Sit down!” he said gently.  “And please don’t tremble!  There is nothing to make you afraid.”

She dropped into the chair he indicated, and made a desperate effort to calm herself.  He stood beside her with the absolute patience of one accustomed to long waiting.