“How beautiful,” she murmured; “how strong and safe!”

“It pleases me that you feel that,” he plunged directly into his purpose; “for I intend to offer you all the strength and safety it contains.”  Her hands fluttered to her cheeks; a sudden fear touched her, yet her eyes found his unwaveringly.  “If that were all,” he continued, standing above her, “if I had only to tell you of the iron, if the metal were flawless, I’d be overwhelmed with gladness.  But almost no iron is perfect, the longest refining leaves bubbles, faults.  Men are like that, too ...  Susan.”  She grew troubled, sensitively following his mood; her hands were now pressed to her breast, her lips parted.  She was so bewilderingly pure, in her dim-lit, pearly haze of silk, that he paused with an involuntary contraction of pain at what must follow.

“The child, Eunice,” he struggled on; “I couldn’t leave her at the Academy because it might injure you.  I had brought her in a most blind egotism; and so I took her away.  She is my daughter.”

He saw that at first she totally missed the implication of his words.  “But,” she stammered, “I was told you had no ... how would that—?” Then she stopped as sharply as if a hand had compressed her throat.  A vivid mantle of colour rose in her face; she made a motion of rising, of flight, but sank back weakly.  “It is criminally indelicate to speak to you of this,” he said, “but it was absolutely necessary.  I want to marry you; in that circumstance a lie would be fatal, later or sooner.”

She attempted to speak, her lips quivered, but only a low gasp was audible.  It was worse, even, than he had feared.  Now, however, that he had told her, he felt happier, more confident.  Surely, after a little, she would forgive, forget, “I want to marry you,” he repeated, torn with pity at her fragility, her visible suffering.  “All that might hurt you has been put out of my life, out of our future.  The way is open before us, the refining.  I would do anything to spare you, believe that; but the truth, now, best.”

“Always,” she said in a faint voice.  “I am trying to—­to realize.  Oh!  I suppose such things do occur; but the child herself, you—­don’t see how that, so near—­” she broke off, gazing wide-eyed out of her misery.  He was conscious of the dull, regular beat of the Forge hammer.  God, how the imperfections persisted!  But, he told himself savagely, in the end the metal was steadfast.  He would, certainly, overcome her natural revulsion from what she had just heard.  The colour had left her cheeks, violet shadows gathered about her eyes; she seemed more unsubstantial than ever.  He would repay again and again the suffering he had brought her.  Having declared himself he was almost tranquil; there was a total absence of the impetuous emotionalism of youth, the blind tyranny of desire.  His feeling was deeper, and accompanied by a far more involved philosophy of self-recognition.  At the same time, while acutely conscious of his absolute need of Susan Brundon, he was at a loss to discover its essence, shape.  Before he had known her he had been obsessed by a distaste for his existence; he had desperately wanted something without definition ...  And Susan was that desire, delicate, clear-eyed Susan.  Yet, still, the heart of her escaped him.