As she walked through the streets fanciful comparisons between the two men thronged in her brain, but when presently she reached Adams’ office, and stood beside his desk, with her hand in his hearty grasp, she realised all at once that the visit was useless, and that there was nothing she could say to him which would not sound hysterical and absurd.

“So, thank heaven, there’s something I can do for you!” he exclaimed, with his cordial smile.  “Wait till I get into my overcoat and then we’ll see about it.”

“No—­no,” she protested in a terror, which she could not explain even to herself, “don’t come out with me—­there’s nothing you can do.  I came because I couldn’t help myself,” she added, smiling; “and I’ll go for no better reason, in a little while.”

“Well, I’m ready whenever you say so.  If it’s to overturn Brooklyn Bridge, I’ll set about it for the asking.”

“It isn’t anything so serious—­there’s nothing really I want done,” she answered gayly, though the pain in her eyes stabbed him to the heart, “all I wanted was to make sure of you—­to make sure, I mean, that you are really here.”

“Oh, I’m here all right!” he replied, with energy.  She looked at him steadily for a moment with her excited eyes which had grown darkly brilliant.

“Do you know what I sometimes think?” she said, breaking into a pathetic little laugh, “it is that I remind myself of one of those angels who, after falling out of heaven, could neither get back again nor reconcile themselves to the things of earth.”

Her hand lay on his desk, and while she spoke he bent forward and touched it an instant with his own.  Light as the gesture was, it possessed a peculiar power of sympathy; and she was conscious as he looked at her that there was no further need for her to speak, because he understood, not only all that she had meant to put into words, but everything that was hidden in her heart as well.

“I can’t preach to you, Laura,” he said, “but—­but—­oh, I can’t express even what is in my mind,” he added.  “I wish I could!”

“It wouldn’t help me,” she replied, “because although I am not reconciled with the things of earth I want to be—­oh, how I want to be!”

“But you can’t be—­not you,” he said.  “You’re of that particular fibre which grows stronger through pain, I think—­and, in the end, how much easier it is to be made all spirit or all clay—­it’s the combination, not the pure quantity that hurts.”

“I wonder if you ever know what it is?” she rejoined.  “Does the earth ever pull you back when you want to climb?”

His smile faded, and he looked at her again with the sympathy which accepted, without explanation, not only her outward aspect, but the soul within.  “There’s not much in my life that counts for a great deal, Laura,” he said, “but you come in for considerably the larger share of it.  At this moment I am ready to do either of two things, as you may wish—­I am ready to stand aside and let your future settle itself as it probably will, or I am ready, at your word, to hear everything and to judge for you as I would judge for myself.  No—­no, don’t answer me now,” he added, “carry it away with you, and remember or forget it, as you choose.”