“Why shouldn’t we just be friends?” she urged.  “I know it sounds an old, stale thing to say.  But it isn’t.  There’s a new meaning in it now, because—­because women are being made new.  It used to be offering what we couldn’t give.  We could be lovers; we weren’t good enough—­we hadn’t stuff enough—­to be friends.  But now—­dear Lord Tatham—­just try me—­” She held out to him two hands, which he took against his will.  “I like you so much!—­I know that I should love your mother.  Now that we’ve had this out, why shouldn’t we build up something quite fresh?  I want a friend—­so badly!”

“And I want something—­so much more than a friend!” he said, pressing her hands fiercely.

“Ah, but give it up!” she pleaded.  “If you can’t, I mustn’t come here any more, nor you to us.  And why?  It would be such a waste—­of what our friendship might be.  You could teach me so many things.  I think I could teach you some.”

He dropped her hands, mastering himself with difficulty.

“It’s nonsense,” he said shortly; “I know it’s nonsense!  But—­if I promised not to say anything of this kind again for a year?”

She pondered.  There were compunctions, remorses, in her.  As Susan had warned her, was she playing with a man’s heart and life?

But her trust in her own resources, the zest of spiritual adventure, and a sheer longing to comfort him prevailed.

“You’ll promise that; and I’ll promise—­just to be as nice to you as ever I can!” She paused.  They looked at each other; the trouble in his eyes questioning the smile in hers.  “Now please!—­my friend!”—­she slid dexterously, though very softly, into the everyday tone—­“will you advise me?  Mr. Delorme has asked me to sit to him.  Just a sketch in the garden—­for a picture he’s at work on.  You would like me to accept?”

She stood before him, her eyes raised, with the frank gentleness of a child.  Yet there was a condition implied in the question.

Tatham broke out—­passionately,

“Just tell me.  There’s—­there’s no one else?”

She suffered for him; she hastened to comfort him.

“No, no—­indeed there’s no one else.  Though, mind, I’m free.  And so are you.  Shall I come to-morrow?” she asked again, with quiet insistence.

There was a gulp in Tatham’s throat.  Yet he rose—­dismally—­to her challenge.

“You would do what I like?” he asked, quivering.

“Indeed I would.”

“I invited Delorme here—­just to please you—­and because I hoped he’d paint you.”

“Then that’s settled!” she said, with a little sigh of satisfaction.

“And what, please, am I to do—­that you’d like?” She looked up mischievously.

“Call me Lydia—­forget that you ever wanted to marry me—­and don’t mind a rap what people say!”

He laughed, through his pain, and gravely took her hand.

“And now,” said Lydia, “I think it’s time to go home.”