“I’m afraid I can’t grasp it,” Gladys said.

“Can’t you!” Shiel exclaimed, “I can.  The idea came to me when I heard you singing just now, and saw you sitting here, in the midst of flowers, and dressed like a rose.  I should paint you clad as you are now—­all in pink—­seated in the garden singing; and all the flowers leaning towards you listening.  I would give anything to paint it,” and he spoke with such enthusiasm that Gladys, remembering her dream, flushed.

“I think,” she said, “we might go into the garden and see how the work is progressing.”

“I fear I can’t do any more digging,” Shiel put in hastily, “I willingly would if I could, but I really can’t use my hands.”

“And you’ve not had any vaseline,” Gladys cried.  “I’ll get you some,” and before he could prevent her she had gone.

She was back again, however, in a few moments with a tiny white jar and some linen bandages.  “I couldn’t find my aunt,” she began, “or she would bandage your hands for you.”

“Won’t you?” Shiel asked.  “Do!”

He thrust his hands towards her as he spoke, and Gladys uttered an exclamation of horror—­the palms and fingers were raw and swollen.

“I feel heartily ashamed of myself for being so thin-skinned,” Shiel said.  But Gladys had disappeared.  She returned almost immediately with a bowl of water.

“I’m sure they must hurt you dreadfully,” she exclaimed, as she gently bathed the hands.  “It makes me feel quite ill to see them.”

For the next few moments Shiel was in Paradise.  The touch of her cool, white fingers on his hot and burning skin was far nicer than anything he had ever imagined.  Her sweet-scented breath stealing gently up his nostrils soothed away all his care—­even the remembrance of his recent loss.

With his whole heart and soul concentrated in his gaze, he watched her every movement—­watched the waving and tossing of the stray wisps of hair over her temples and ears, as the breeze rustled through the open windows; and the gentle tightening and relaxation of her delicately moulded lips each time she breathed.

Shiel had always led a very solitary existence.  Apart from his uncle he had no near relatives, and with the exception of the five or six weeks in the year he had spent at Dick Davenport’s house at Sydenham, he had always been in rooms.  He had often felt lonely, but never quite so lonely as now—­now that the only person he had known intimately and for whom he had entertained any real affection, was suddenly taken away.  He was now absolutely alone in the world, and the poignancy of his position came home to him acutely.

It is a terrible thing to be lonely.  Lonely men do all sorts of dreadful things—­things they would certainly never dream of doing if they had companionship.  And Shiel was doing a dreadful thing now.  Every moment he was falling more and more desperately in love, despite the fact that he had no money, and worse still—­no prospects of ever making any.  And loneliness was in the main responsible for it.