’I don’t know that.  Anybody may witness anything.  But she seems to have guessed.  Of course my father never keeps anything to himself.  Anyway she didn’t like being thanked at all.  She turned back to the house at once.  So then I asked her if she knew what had happened to the precious codicil.  And she flushed up and said, with the manner of an icicle, “Mr. Mannering sent me to the drawer this morning, where he had put it away.  It was lying on the top, and I saw it.”  “Signed?” I said.  “No, not signed.”  Then she began to hurry, and I thought I had offended her in some way.  But it dawned upon me, presently, that she was really torn between her feeling of chivalry towards me—­she seems to have a kindness for soldiers! her brother is fighting somewhere—­and her professional obligations towards my father.  Wasn’t it odd?  She hated to be indiscreet, to give him away, and yet she could not help it!  I believe she had been awake half the night.  Her eyes looked like it.  I must say I liked her very much.  A woman of a great deal of character!  I expect she has a rough time of it!’

‘But of course,’ said Beryl, ’it may be all signed and witnessed by now!’

‘Most probably!’ The Major laughed.  ’But she did her best anyway, and I shan’t ask her any more questions.  We had better take it for granted.  My father is as obstinate as they make ’em.  Well now, dear Beryl, have you—­have you thought it over?’

He pointed to a seat, and sat down by her.  The brightness of his look had passed away.  The thin, intellectual face and lined brow had resumed the expression that was familiar to Beryl.  It was an expression of fatigue—­not physical now, for he had clearly recovered his health, but moral; as though the man behind it were worn out by some hidden debate with his own mind, into which he fell perpetually, when left to himself.  It was the look which divided him from her.

‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I’ve been thinking a great deal.’  She stopped; then lifting her eyes, which were grey and fringed with dark lashes—­beautiful eyes, timid yet passionately honest—­she said, ‘You’d better give me up, Aubrey!’

He made a restless movement, then took her hands and raised them to his lips.

‘I don’t feel like it!’ he said, smiling.  ‘Tell me what you mean.’

She looked down, plucking at the fringed belt of her sports coat.  Her lips trembled a little.

’I don’t think, Aubrey, I can make you happy!  I’ve been feeling often—­that I don’t seem to make much difference to you.  And now this is very serious—­giving up Mannering. You may mind it much more than you think.  And if—­’

‘If what?  Go on!’

She raised her eyes again and looked at him straight.

‘If I can’t make up?’

The colour flooded into his face, as though, far within, something stirred ‘like a guilty thing surprised.’  But he said tenderly: 

’I don’t care that, Beryl’—­he snapped his fingers—­’for Mannering in comparison with you.’