“What a reckless person you are.  I must make a copy, then, and keep that.”

“That would spoil my pleasure and my gift, too.  It’s only valuable because it’s unique.”

“Whatever it is it’s sure to be that.”

“I don’t mean in that way altogether—­” he hesitated, for he had touched a part of his subject which had to be handled gently; and he was aware that in handling it at all he was courting rejection of the gift.

“And you are going to leave it with me now?”

“Yes.”

She did not look up, but kept her eyes fixed on the sheets that lay in her lap, her hands lightly covering them.  Was it possible that her finger-tips had caught the secret of the page beneath them and that their delicate nerves had already carried it to her brain?  Was she considering what she was to do?

“You will see that one page is left blank; I couldn’t fill it up till I knew whether you would accept the dedication.”

“I?” She looked up.  She was no doubt surprised; but he thought he could read something in her look that was deeper and sweeter than surprise.

“If you could, it would give me great pleasure.  It’s the only acknowledgement I can make for all your kindness.”

“Please, please don’t talk of my kindness.”

“I won’t.  If it were any other book, it might be merely a question of acknowledgement, but this book belongs to you.”

“Are you quite sure—­” She was about to question his right to offer it, which was as good as questioning his honour, as good as assuming that—­She paused, horrified as she realized what it was that she had almost assumed.  Kitty had often told her that she erred through excess of subtlety.  It wouldn’t have mattered with anybody less subtle than Keith Rickman; but he would see it all.  He did.

“Quite sure that I oughtn’t to offer it to anybody else?  I am quite sure.  It was written four years ago, before—­before I knew anybody else.  It has nothing to do with anybody else, it couldn’t have been dedicated to anybody else.  If you don’t accept it—­”

“But I do.”  Her eagerness was the natural recoil from her hesitation.  She was so anxious to atone for that shocking blunder she had made.

“I say, how you do take things on trust.”

“Some things.”

“But you mustn’t.  You can’t accept the dedication of a book you haven’t read.  Do you know, now I come to think of it, you’ve always taken me on trust?  Do you remember when first I came to you—­it’s more than five years ago—­you took me on trust then?” (Their talk had a way of running to this refrain of ‘Do you remember?’) “Do you remember how you said,’ I must risk it’?”

“Yes, I remember how I insisted on keeping you, and how very unwilling you were to be kept.”

“Do you mind telling me what made you want to keep me?  You didn’t know me in the least, you know.”

“I wanted to keep you because you didn’t want to stay.  I knew then that I could trust you.  But I confess that most people might not have seen it in that way.”