“And you suffered?”

“Sometimes, but I’m interested in my work, and I’ve been thinking and planning all summer.”

For a moment he was silent, and though she did not look at him, she could feel his intense gaze on her face.  The breeze, scented with rose geranium, touched her forehead like the healing and delicate stroke of his fingers.

“You are still so young, so vital, not to have something else in your life,” he went on presently in a voice so charged with feeling that her eyes filled while she listened to it.

“I have had love, and I have my children.”

“But you will love again?  You will marry again some day?”

She shook her head, hearing, above the street cries and the muffled rumble of the elevated train, a voice that said:  “I shall never give you up, Gabriella!” To her weakened nerves there appeared, with the vividness of an hallucination, the memory of Arthur as he had looked in her school-days when she had first loved him; and in this hallucination she saw him, not as he was in reality, but divinely glorified and enkindled by the light her imagination had created around him.

“No, I shall never love again, I shall never love again,” she answered at last, while a feeling of exultation surged through her.

“You mean,” his voice shook a little, “that your husband still holds you?”

“My husband?  No, I never think of my husband.”

“Is there some one else?”

Before answering she looked up at him, and by his face she knew that her reply would cost her his friendship.  She wanted his friendship—­at the moment she felt that she would gladly give a year of her life for it.  It meant companionship instead of loneliness, it meant plenty instead of famine.  Yet only for an instant, only while she stopped to draw breath, did she hesitate.  “Women must learn to be honourable,” she found herself thinking suddenly with an extraordinary intensity.

“Yes, there is some one else—­there has always been some one else,” she said, driven on by an impulsive desire for full confession, for absolute candour.  “When I met George I was engaged to another man, and I have loved that man all my life.”

She had confessed all, she told herself; and the remarkable part was that she really believed her confession—­she was honestly convinced that she had spoken only the truth.  Her soul, like the soul of Cousin Jimmy, sheltered a romantic strain which demanded that one supreme illusion should endure amid a world of disillusionment.  Because she was obliged to believe in something or die, she had built her imperishable Dream on the flame-swept ruins of her happiness.

“He must be a big man if he can fill a life like yours,” said Dr. French.

“I don’t know why I told you,” she faltered; “I have never told any one else.  It is my secret.”

“Well, it is safe with me.  Don’t be afraid.”

For the few minutes before he rose to go they talked indifferently of other things.  She had lost him, she knew, and while she held his hand at parting, she felt a sharp regret for what was passing out of her life—­for the one chance of love, of peace, of a tranquil and commonplace happiness.  But beneath the regret there was a hidden spring of joy in her heart.  At the instant of trial she had found strength to be true to her Dream.