“I felt what it might be—­to help in the building up a better human life—­in this vast new country.  God has given to you this task—­such a noble task!—­and through your friendship, I too seemed to have a little part in it, if only by sympathy.  Oh, no! you mustn’t turn back—­you mustn’t shrink—­because of what has happened to you.  And let me, from a distance, watch and help.  It will ennoble my life, too.  Let me!”—­she smiled—­“I shall make a good friend, you’ll see.  I shall write very often.  I shall argue—­and criticise—­and want a great deal of explaining.  And you’ll come over to us, and do splendid work, and make many English friends.  Your strength will all come back to you.”

He pressed the hands he held more closely.

“It is like you to say all this—­but—­don’t let us deceive ourselves.  I could not be your friend, Lady Merton.  I must not come and see you.”

She was silent, very pale, her eyes on his—­and he went on: 

“It is strange to say it in this way, at such a moment; but it seems as though I had better say it.  I have had the audacity, you see—­to fall in love with you.  And if it was audacity a week ago, you can guess what it is now—­now when—­Ask your mother and brother what they would think of it!” he said abruptly, almost fiercely.

There was a moment’s silence.  All consciousness, all feeling in each of these two human beings had come to be—­with the irrevocable swiftness of love—­a consciousness of the other.  Under the sombre renouncing passion of his look, her own eyes filled slowly—­beautifully—­with tears.  And through all his perplexity and pain there shot a thrill of joy, of triumph even, sharp and wonderful.  He understood.  All this might have been his—­this delicate beauty, this quick will, this rare intelligence—­and yet the surrender in her aspect was not the simple surrender of love; he knew before she spoke that she did not pretend to ignore the obstacles between them; that she was not going to throw herself upon his renunciation, trying vehemently to break it down, in a mere blind girlish impulsiveness.  He realised at once her heart, and her common sense; and was grateful to her for both.

Gently she drew herself away, drawing a long breath.  “My mother and brother would not decide those things for me—­oh, never!—­I should decide them for myself.  But we are not going to talk of them to-day.  We are not going to make any—­any rash promises to each other.  It is you we must think for—­your future—­your life.  And then—­if you won’t give me a friend’s right to speak—­you will be unkind—­and I shall respect you less.”

She threw back her little head with vivacity.  In the gesture he saw the strength of her will and his own wavered.

“How can it be unkind?” he protested.  “You ought not to be troubled with me any more.”

“Let me be judge of that.  If you will persist in giving up this appointment, promise me at least to come to England.  That will break this spell of this—­this terrible thing, and give you courage—­again.  Promise me!”