“I know how young you are,” she answered, with a little choke in her throat.

“I am fifty-four years old,” he went on.  “I am in the last lap of physical well-being, even though my mind should continue to flourish.  And you are—­how much younger!  I dare not think.”

“Idiot!” she exclaimed.  “At fifty-four you are better and stronger than half the men of forty.”

“I have good health,” he admitted, “but no constitution or manner of living is of any account against the years.  In six years’ time I shall be sixty years old.”

She leaned a little towards him.  Now once more the light was coming back into her eyes.  If that was the only thing with him!

“In twelve years’ time from now,” she said, “I, too, shall turn over a chapter, the chapter of my youth.  What is time but a relative thing?  Who shall measure your six years against my twelve?  The years that count in the life of a man or a woman are the measure of their happiness.”

She glided from her chair and sank on her knees beside him.  Her lips pleaded.  He took her gently, far too gently, into his arms.

“Dear Nora,” he begged, “be kind to me.  It is for your sake.  I know what love should mean for you, what it must mean for every sweet woman.  You see only the present.  It is my hard task to look into the future for you.”

“Can’t you understand,” she whispered feverishly, “that I would rather have that six years of your life, and its aftermath, than an eternity with any other man?  Bend down your head, Stephen.”

Her hands were clasped around his neck, her lips forced his.  For a moment they remained so, while the room swam around her and her heart throbbed like a mad thing.  Then she slowly unlocked her arms and drew away.  As though unconscious of what she was doing, she found herself rubbing her lips softly with her handkerchief.  She threw herself back in her chair a little recklessly.

“Very well, Stephen,” she said, “you know your heart best.  Drink your coffee and I’ll be sensible again directly.”

To his horror she was shaken with sobs.  He would have consoled her, but she motioned him away.

“Dear Stephen,” she pleaded, “I am sorry—­to be such a fool—­but this thing has lived with me a long time, and—­would you go away?  It would be kindest.”

He rose to his feet, hesitated for one moment of agony, then crossed the room with a farewell glance at the sad little feast.  He closed the door softly behind him, descended the stairs and stood for a moment in the entrance hall, looking out upon the street.  A cheerless, drizzling rain was falling.  The streets were wet and swept with a cold wind.  He looked up and down, thought out the way to his club and shivered, thought out in misery the way back to Chelsea, the turning of his latch-key, the darkened rooms.  The house opposite was brilliantly lit up.  They seemed to be dancing there and the music