Coming into the veranda about four o’clock, and finding her awake, he suggested that they go for a walk.  She had dressed, in anticipation of this, in a short skirt and heavy walking boots, so they set out across the fields.  Two hours later, having swung her legs over a stone wall that had a comfortably inviting flat top, she remained sitting there and let her gaze rest, unfocused, on the pleasant farm land that lay below them.

After a glance at her he leaned back against the wall at her side and began filling his pipe.  She dropped her hand on his nearer shoulder.  After all these months of friendship it was the first approach to a caress that had passed between them.

“You’re a good friend,” she said, and then the hand that had rested on him so lightly suddenly gripped hard.  “And I guess I need one,” she ended.

He went on filling his pipe.  “Anything special you need one for?” he asked quietly.

[Illustration:  “You’re a good friend,” she said.]

She gave a ragged little laugh.  “I guess not.  Just somebody strong and steady to hold on to like this.”

“Well,” he said very deliberately, “you want to realize this:  You say I’m a friend and I am, but if there is anything in this friendship which can be of use to you you’re entitled to it; to everything there is in it.  Because you made it.”

“One person can’t make a friendship,” she said.  “Even two people can’t.  It’s got to—­grow out of them somehow.”

He assented with a nod.  “But in this case who gave it a chance to grow?  Where would it have been if I’d had my way?  If you hadn’t pulled me up and set me straight?”

“For that matter,” she said, “where would it have been if I had had mine?  If I’d run away and tried for a fresh start, as I’d have done if you hadn’t set me right?”

“Make it so,” he said.  “Say we’ve equal rights in it.  Still you needn’t worry about my not getting my share of the benefits.”

“You are content with it, aren’t you?  Like this?  I haven’t—­cheated?  Used you?  It’s easy for a woman to do that, I think.  It isn’t ...?” She asked that last question by taking her hand off his shoulder.

“No, put it back,” he said.  “It’s all right.”  He smoked in silence for a minute; then went on.  “Why, ‘content’ is hardly the word for it.  When I think what it was I wanted and what you’ve given me instead ...!  It wasn’t self-denial or any other high moral principle that kept me from flaring up when you took hold of me just now.  It’s because I’ve got a better thing.  Something I wouldn’t trade for all the love in the world.  ’Content’!”

“I’d like to believe it was a better thing,” she said; “but I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Neither could I when I was—­how old are you?—­twenty-four.  Perhaps when you’re fifty-one you can.”

“I suppose so,” she said absently.  “Perhaps if it were a question of choosing between a love that hadn’t any friendship in it and a friendship ...  But it can’t be like that!—­Can it?  Can’t one have both?  Can’t a man—­love a woman and be her friend and partner all at the same time?”